She recoiled.
“You speak so to me?”
It was out: he had to go ahead now. He did not at all recognize himself: this was not American; it was wholly Gallic.
“I can’t help it,” he said, “you are.”
“Go to work,” said the girl.
“But I want you to understand——”
Two tears, twin diamonds of mortification, shone in her blue eyes.
“You have humiliated me, and mortified me, and insulted me!” she persisted. Her white throat swallowed the chagrin, and anger returned to take its place. “If you are what you pretend to be, you will go back to your work of opening that door. If I were the strong man that you are, I should have broken it open long ago.”
She had a handsome ferocity. Cartaret put one broad shoulder to the door and both hands to the knob. There was a tremendous wrenching and splitting: the door swung open. He turned and bowed.
“It’s open,” he said.