"You don't understand," wailed Mrs. Atwood. "You take the common, narrow, early Victorian view of the whole situation. Does he owe me nothing for the years I have loved him?"
"If I had loved a man for years," said Lallie softly, "I don't think I should talk about his debt to me."
"You don't know what you would do. If you were a woman, instead of a child incapable of understanding any great passion, you would know. Will you give him back to me, I ask you? Will you give him back to me?"
"Nothing can do that except his own will."
"But will you stand out of the way, refuse him, have nothing more to do with him? Promise me."
A moment before, Lallie had looked frightened, and Mrs. Atwood thought she could be bullied. She stood over the girl, menace in her eyes and hatred in her heart. She caught Lallie by the shoulder and shook her. She made a great mistake.
A moment before Lallie had been very sorry for her, though she despised her and thought her shameless. But now--she shook off Mrs. Atwood's hand and she, too, stood up.
"I will promise nothing," she said haughtily. "You have no possible right to ask it."
The two women stood looking at each other. Mrs. Atwood breathless, panting, almost beside herself with excitement; Lallie quiet and dignified.
The clock struck three.