"Pig! To strike a defenseless man. Without warning, too. It shows his breeding. And now"—the speaker sneered openly—"I suppose you will bail him out."
"Indeed! Why should I?"
"Oh, don't pretend innocence!" the Count stormed. "Don't act so unconcerned. What's your game, anyhow? Whatever it is, that fellow will cut cord-wood for the rest of the winter where the whole of Dawson can see him and say, 'Behold the lover of the Countess Courteau!'"
"There's some mistake. He isn't a thief."
"No?" The husband swayed a few steps closer, his face working disagreeably. "Already it is proved. He is exposed, ruined. Bah! He made of me a laughing-stock. Well, he shall suffer! A born thief, that's what he is. What have you to say?"
"Why—nothing. I hoped it was a mistake, that's all."
"You HOPED! To be sure!" sneered the speaker. "Well, what are you going to do about it?" When his wife said nothing the man muttered, in some astonishment: "I didn't expect you to take it so quietly. I was prepared for a scene. What ails you?"
Hilda laid down her book. She turned to face her accuser. "Why should I make a scene?" she asked. "I've had nothing to do with Phillips since we parted company at White Horse. I've scarcely spoken to him, and you know it."
"You don't deny there was something between you?"
The woman shrugged non-committally, her lips parted in a faint, cheerless smile. "I deny nothing. I admit nothing."