“In that case, Mr. Fane,” she said, her voice trembling with indignation, “I think we had better part at once.”
“Why, Angela!”
“Don’t call me that, please. There are your flowers.” She cast the roses at his feet with a dramatic gesture. “Your idea of a wife seems to be a—a kind of carpet for you to walk on. You don’t know why you wanted to marry me; I’m sure I don’t know, either, since you say it was not for my money. You evidently don’t think I’m good for anything useful, and you’ve told me that I’m not ornamental. I’m not fit to do any of the things Dolly does; I’m not to walk two miles without your permission; I’m not to be trusted to go about in London at all, and you even expect me to give up the work I’ve been doing for years, and can do! Thank you, Mr. Fane, the prospect is not sufficiently attractive. I must trouble you to look for a wife who is willing to fall in with your peculiar tastes. I’m not!”
She turned her back and swept away, leaving Bernard staring. He ran after her and caught her up.
“Look here, Angela—”
“Let me alone at once!”
“But you don’t understand—”
“I understand quite enough. You don’t understand how to behave.”
“Angela, I do love you.”
“I don’t love you, and I don’t want to!”