“Will you say what you have to say, monsieur?” she demanded in a concentrated voice, “and having said it, will you go?”
“Mademoiselle, I have already said it,” I answered, with a wistful smile.
“Oh!” she gasped. Then suddenly facing round upon me, a world of anger in her blue eyes—eyes that I had known dreamy, but which were now very wide awake. “Was it to offer me this last insult you forced your presence upon me? Was it to mock me with those words, me—a woman, with no man about me to punish you? Shame, sir! Yet it is no more than I might look for in you.”
“Mademoiselle, you do me grievous wrong—” I began.
“I do you no wrong,” she answered hotly, then stopped, unwilling haply to be drawn into contention with me. “Enfin, since you have said what you came to say will you go?” And she pointed to the door.
“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle—” I began in a voice of earnest intercession.
“Go!” she interrupted angrily, and for a second the violence of her voice and gesture almost reminded me of the Vicomtesse. “I will hear no more from you.”
“Mademoiselle, you shall,” I answered no whit less firmly.
“I will not listen to you. Talk if you will. You shall have the walls for audience.” And she moved towards the door, but I barred her passage. I was courteous to the last degree; I bowed low before her as I put myself in her way.
“It is all that was wanting—that you should offer me violence!” she exclaimed.