“Who are you dining with?” he asked with authority.
“Mr. Plank and Mr. Siward.”
“Mr. Siward!” he repeated in surprised displeasure, as though he had not already divined it.
“Yes. A man I like.”
“A man I dislike,” he rejoined with the slightest emphasis.
“I am sorry,” she said simply.
“So am I, Sylvia. And I am going to ask you to make him an excuse. Any excuse will do.”
“Excuse? What do you mean, Howard?”
“I mean that I do not care to have you seen with Mr. Siward. Have I ever demanded very much of you, Sylvia? Very well; I demand this of you now.”
And still she stood there, her eyes wide, her colour gone, repeating: “Excuse? What excuse? What do you mean by 'excuse,' Howard?”