“Joyce! You’re a damned cat! No wonder Bertram has a hellish time with you. I’d like to see the Bolsheviks playing with your bobbed hair, and your lovely white neck.”
Joyce picked up the telephone receiver, and said, “Police station, please.”
“No!” said Bertram.
He took hold of Joyce’s wrist and wrenched it from the instrument, conscious of his own violence.
“Joyce, I forbid you. I gave my word. Surely you respect that? By God, you must respect it. If you touch that telephone again, I’ll—I’ll carry you upstairs.”
Joyce looked at him squarely, and their eyes met and searched each other. She saw more anger in his eyes than ever before. She saw that he meant to use his strength.
“I surrender to force. Three to one, and all enemies.”
She laughed on a high note, picked up her fur coat, and went out of the room. They listened to her light steps up the polished stairs, and to the sharp slam of her bedroom door.
“Poor old Bertram!” said Susan, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief.
He turned on her fiercely.