“Yes.”
She drew her cloak closer about her shoulders, and moved towards the house, but Bertram took her by the wrist.
“We’ve got to have it out, Joyce. Shall it be here, in the garden, or indoors?”
She tried to release her wrist—the same wrist which he had hurt over a telephone—but he held her fast.
“Indoors,” she said.
“All right.”
He held open the door of the little turret for her, and as two could not pass together, released her wrist as she went in. She slipped away from him then, and ran lightly up the stone stairs which led to the gallery round the great staircase, and her bedroom. She had the door of her room almost slammed in his face before he reached her, and held the door-handle.
“Not quick enough!”
“No.”
They stood facing each other rather breathlessly inside her room. Joyce laughed a little, but in a baffled, angry way, like a thwarted child.