"I tell you, Alice, you've made a fine mistake with that swell of yours," he exclaimed, his eyes flashing with resentment.
Alice stared at him in deep distress. Ever since the engagement Mr. Shanner had been all decorousness and deference. As he broke now through his ashen shell of propriety, his sedate person seemed to relapse, to stand limp, a trifle greyer, a trifle less well trimmed.
"Oh," she gasped at last, "you are under some misapprehension."
"Come, come, Alice," he said; "don't you suppose I've two eyes—and wide-open ones, too?"
"I don't really understand what you're alluding to, Mr. Shanner," she returned as coldly as she could find it in her.
"I am alluding to your engagement, of course," he insisted. His tone showed he was determined to force the subject on her. "What do you suppose the fellow is going to marry you for? Men of his class do not come out of their way to look for a wife amongst people of our class. You mustn't mind my not mincing words, but it's clear to me he doesn't care a fig about you, and that your money is the attraction. There, that's plain!"
Alice felt herself turn scarlet. Mr. Shanner suddenly stood revealed to her—of roughness and coarseness unendurable.
"I don't understand you," she exclaimed, feeling she was floundering, and with an acute sense of her lack of social skill to meet the contingency and cut short the interview.
"Oh, yes you do, Alice. Only you are too proud to say so."
"You are mistaken. My intended husband and I are on the best of terms. I am very much surprised to hear this from you."