Erard shrugged his shoulders.
“Don’t be stupid and melodramatic. You ought to know by this time whether you like Wilbur well enough to live with him.”
“Or prefer Erard,” she retorted sarcastically. He looked at her, measuring her, enjoying her passion. “I have been such a good disciple, dear master,” she continued tempestuously. “I have studied your gospel letter by letter.”
“There are some chapters yet unperused,” Erard smiled back, mockingly.
“In good time may your pupil go so far—”
“All in good time.”
He baffled her, and after each period of stormy indulgence he left her lower in her own esteem. Whenever she gave herself free rein, she had a sickening sense of the futility of abandonment. She lost each time a little power.
“Now you had better let me show you some landscape, or will you pack your trunk for—Chicago?” He played with her mood tranquilly.
“I would like to—strike you!” In a moment she gave a little low laugh of scorn. “No, you really aren’t worth tragic displays, Mr. Simeon Erard! Did you ever dream that there are some sensations beyond you?”
“For example?” he walked slowly towards her.