“I mean William,” said Daniel.
She stared at him, breathing hard.
“You think so? Voilà! You haven’t heard him quarrel, you haven’t seen how he takes your mother’s side and your father’s side against me! And”—she laughed wildly—“you haven’t seen him alone—under the horse-chestnut tree—with that paragon, Virginia Denbigh!”
Daniel’s arm fell from the mantel. He said nothing. He walked slowly to the table and picked up his books and papers. But Fanchon was stinging with anger. She had seen Mrs. Carter’s face, she had been treated with cold politeness by Mr. Carter, her whole wild, stormy nature was up in arms. Because she saw it hurt, she struck and struck deeply.
“I tell you she’s stealing his heart away from me. Mais hélas, it doesn’t matter, she’s a paragon and I’m a dunce! She—”
Daniel walked past her out of the room without a word. But Fanchon followed him to the door, white with rage.
“Mon Dieu! You needn’t feel like that!” she cried shrilly. “She says she’s sorry for you because you’re a cripple.”
Daniel did not pause. He heard her, but he went on, toiling slowly upward. He never once looked back at the little creature in the doorway, but went steadily on with a white face and haggard eyes.
XIII
Fanchon did not go up-stairs. She flung herself face downward on the lounge in the library and writhed there, beating the old silk cushions with her small, furious fists. In the bitterness of her heart she thought she hated them all, every Carter who was ever born! Because she was so angry, so wilfully hurt, she had wreaked her vengeance upon Daniel. She had told him a falsehood, and now, thinking of it, she tore at the cushions and wept hot tears.