"May I sit down? What marvellous rugs! What an extraordinary boat this is!"
"Oh, sit—the divan! Yes, the rugs are fine—of course."
Hastily, and moving without her usual grace, she went to the nearest divan. He followed her. She sat down, but did not lean back. She had dropped his card on the floor.
"You read my note! Well, then—?"
It seemed to Isaacson that within his companion there was at this moment a violent mental struggle going on as to what course she should take, now, immediately; as if something within her was clamouring for defiance, something else was pleading for diplomacy. He felt that he was close to an almost red-hot violence, and wondered intensely whether it was going to have its way. He wondered, but he did not care. For he knew that nothing his companion did could change his inward decision. And even in a moment that was like a black thing lit up by tragic fires he enjoyed his alert mentality, as an athlete enjoys his power to give a tremendous blow even if he has just seen a sight that has waked in him horror.
"Well, then?" she repeated, always speaking in a very low voice, though not in a whisper.
A cuckoo clock sounded. She sprang up.
"That wretched—!"
She went over to the clock, tore the little door in the front out, inserted her fingers in the opening. There was a dry sound of tearing and splintering. She came back with minute drops of blood on her fingers.
"It drives Nigel mad!" she said. "It ought to have been stopped long ago. You got my note, and I your answer."