“You received my letter?” said the woman.
Yvonne did not answer. Her sister stamped and came nearer. “Speak!” she cried.
Yvonne shrank and trembled, but kept her resolute eyes on the cruel eyes approaching hers.
“Shall I tear an answer from you?” said the woman, always coming nearer. “Do you think I will wait your pleasure, now?”
No answer.
“He is here—Mr Blumenthal; he is waiting for you. You dare not refuse him again! You will come with us now, after the opera. Do you hear? You will come. There is no more time. It must be now. I told you there would be time, but there is none—none!”
Yvonne’s maid knocked at the door and called:
“Mademoiselle, c’est l’heuer!”
“Answer!” hissed the woman.
Yvonne, speechless, holding both hands to her heart, kept her eyes on her sister’s face. That face grew ashen; the eyes had the blank glare of a tiger’s; she sprang up to Yvonne and grasped her by the wrists.