On his oath he would have sworn one happy moment before that he had never thought so. Now he thought too much.
"You show it me or I kill you," said Pete. "I know Mr. Quin he give you some stuff to make a dless."
In his rage his words grew more Indian, and his taught English failed, his r's became l's. So did hers.
"Damn lie, I have no dless," screamed Jenny. "You no give me no'ting, you make kokshut my dlessing-gown. I dless like one cultus klootchman, in lags."
He ran at her and she fled round the table. The newspaper and the dinner went on the floor, and she screamed. Then she slipped on the steak, and went down. As chance had it the table came over on top of her and she held it tight, so that he could not get at her to hurt her much. But he kicked her legs hard and then went into the inner room.
"No, Pete, no," she screamed. She knew that he must find the dress, the precious silk, and she forgot all else in her great desire that it should not be harmed. "I tell you the trut', Pete."
She crawled from under the table: her hair was down to her waist, her wretched every-day gown torn from her back: her bosom showed.
"Oh, Pete, oh, Pete!"
Her lips hung piteous for the lovely thing that Pete had found and now held up in horrid triumph. The roll unrolled: he had the crumpled end in his hand. It was a flag of blazing silk, a tartan to appeal to any savage. Now it cried for help.
"You damn klootchman, you," said Pete. "What for Quin he give you this?"