His face was flooded with red.
“Why should I be angry?” he stammered, like a man completely taken aback.
“How can I tell? But, as I came in just now, you looked at me as if you wanted to punish me.”
“I—I am afraid—it seems that my face says a great deal that—that—”
“Your lips would not choose to say. Well, it does. Why are you angry with me?” She gazed at him mercilessly, studying the trouble of his face. The combative part of her nature had been roused by the glance he had cast at her. What right had he, had any man, to look at her like that?
Her blunt directness lashed him back into the firmness he had lost. She felt in a moment that there was a fighting capacity in him equal, perhaps superior, to her own.
“When I saw you come from the priest’s house, Madame, I felt as if you had been there speaking about me—about my conduct of yesterday.”
“Indeed! Why should I do that?”
“I thought as you had kindly wished me to come—”
He stopped.