“I did what I felt was my duty, Pamela—my duty to you and to your uncle.”
“Duty!” ejaculated Pamela, with such an air that Box began to growl, imagining his mistress in want of protection. “Duty! It is the most hateful word in the whole of the English language. You asked him when he was going to propose to me—you lowered and humiliated me beyond all that words can say—you—you spoilt everything.”
“Pamela, is this reasonable or just?”
“To be asked when he was going to propose to a girl—with his artistic temperament—the very thing to disgust him,” said Pamela, in a series of gasps. “If you had WANTED to part us for ever you could not have gone to work better.”
“Whatever I wanted yesterday, I am quite clear about my feelings to-day, Pamela. It is my earnest hope that you and Mr. Castellani will never meet again.”
“You are very cruel, then—heartless—inhuman. Because you have done with love—because you have left my poor Uncle George—Heaven alone knows why—is no one else to be happy?”
“You could not be happy with César Castellani, Pamela. Happiness does not lie that way. I tell you again, he is a bad man.”
“And I tell you again I don’t believe you. In what way is he bad? Does he rob, murder, forge, set fire to people’s houses? What has he done that is bad?”
“He has traduced your uncle—to me, his wife.”
Pamela’s countenance fell.