“Oh, as to that,” I said lightly, “it makes me ill for days if my car runs over a dog.” He looked at me in silence. “You are not going to get up on that parapet again?”
“Mrs. Wilson,” he said, without paying the slightest attention to my question, “will you tell me what I have done?”
“Done?”
“Or have not done? I have racked my brains—stayed awake all of last night. At first I hoped it was impersonal, that, womanlike you were merely venting general disfavor on one particular individual. But—your hostility is to me, personally.”
I raised my eyebrows, coldly interrogative.
“Perhaps,” he went on calmly—“perhaps I was a fool here on the roof—the night before last. If I said anything that I should not, I ask your pardon. If it is not that, I think you ought to ask mine!”
I was angry enough then.
“There can be only one opinion about your conduct,” I retorted warmly. “It was worse than brutal. It—it was unspeakable. I have no words for it—except that I loathe it—and you.”
He was very grim by this time. “I have heard you say something like that before—only I was not the unfortunate in that case.”
“Oh!” I was choking.