She came at her cousin with eyes flashing. "Now you're all alone,
Vievie! I've been waiting for this. Do you know what I'm going to do?
I'm going to give you a piece of my mind."
"Please, dear!" begged Genevieve.
"No. I'll not please! You deserve a good beating, and I'm going to give it to you. That poor Mr. Blake! Aren't you 'shamed of yourself? Breaking his big noble heart!"
"Dolores! I must ask you—"
"No, you mustn't! You've got to listen to me, you know you have. To think that you, who've always pretended to be so kind and considerate, should be a regular cat!"
"You foolish dear!" murmured Genevieve. "Do you imagine that anything that you can say can hurt me, after—after—" She turned away to hide her starting tears.
"That's it!" jeered her cousin. "Be a snivelly little hypocrite.
Pretend to be so sorry—when you're not sorry at all. Pah!"
Genevieve recovered her dignity with her composure. "That is quite enough, my dear. I can overlook what you have already said. You know absolutely nothing about love and the bitter grief it brings."
"You don't say!" retorted Dolores, her nostrils quivering. "Much you know about me. But you!—the idea of pretending you love him—that you ever so much as dreamed of loving him!"
Genevieve shrank back as if she had been struck. "Oh! for any one to say that to me!"