He paused to note the effect of his words. She was staring coldly and stonily before her. Her thoughts were bitter. Matsuda went a step nearer to her.
“You do not believe in my pity for you?” he asked.
She raised her head proudly.
“I do not need it,” she said.
“Hah! Your words are proud. You will learn soon to frame your lips to meeker words.”
She turned as if to re-enter the house, but he sprang lithely before her and stood in her path, his hideous face thrust before the range of her vision.
“Listen once again. You have come to beggary, Madame Azalea, for in my sleeve this minute rests the last of your yen. What will you do now?”
“Yes, Matsuda Isami,” she said, “you hold the last of the money, but there are things I can sell, and the house is yet mine. Let me pass.”
He laughed in her face so that his breath struck her.
“Every article within the house belongs to me—me!” he said, touching his breast with his fingers. She stared at him with horrified eyes. Inside the house the wail of her baby, awakened from its sleep, floated out to them, and the sound silenced both for a moment. Then she pushed by him, and still he barred her passage.