“You sneaking reptile!” she cried, her voice trembling with anger; “you backbiting, underhand beast! What lies have you dared tell my father about me?”
“You are under some strange misapprehension, Miss Hemster,” I replied, with a coolness which earned my mental approbation, fervently hoping at the same time that I might continue to maintain control over my deplorable temper; “you have jumped at a conclusion not borne out by fact. I assure you I have never discussed you with your father, and should not venture to do so.”
I remembered the moment I had spoken that I had just promised another lady to do that very thing. What everybody says must be true when they state that my thoughts are awkward and ungainly, rarely coming up to the starting-point until too late. I fear this tardy recollection brought the colour to my face, for the angry eyes of the girl were upon me, and she evidently misread this untimely flushing. She leaned across the little wicker table and said in a calm, unruffled voice, marked with the bitterness of hate:
“You are a liar.”
I rose to my feet with the intention of leaving her, but she sprang up with a nimbleness superior to my own, and before I was aware of what she was about she thrust her two hands against my breast and plumped me unexpectedly down into my chair again. It was a ludicrous and humiliating situation, but I was too angry to laugh about it. Standing over me, she hissed down at me:
“You heard what I said.”
“Perfectly, and I am resolved that there shall be no further communication between us.”
“Oh, are you? Well, you’ll listen to what I have to say, or I’ll add ‘coward’ to ‘liar.’ Either you or Hilda Stretton has been poisoning my father’s mind against me. Which was it?”
“It was I, of course.”
“Then you admit you are a liar?”