"Or you will make a confounded fool of yourself."
The voice is that of Arch Brookhouse, disagreeably contemptuous, provokingly calm.
"No matter. What will it make of you?"
The words begin wrathful and sibilant, and end with a hiss. Can that be the voice of my hostess?
Making a pretense of search I press my face closer to the trellis and peer through.
I see Adele Manvers, her face livid with passion, her eyes ablaze, her lips twitching convulsively. There is no undercurrent of feeling now. Rage, defiance, desperation, are stamped upon her every feature.
Opposite her stands Arch Brookhouse, his attitude that of careless indifference, an insolent smile upon his countenance.
"If I were you, I would drop that nonsense," he says, coolly. "You might make an inning with this new city sprig, perhaps. He looks like an easy fish to catch; more money than brains, I should say."