"Do you want to marry her?"
"I said that I was considering nothing in particular. We are friends."
"Keep away from her! Do you understand?"
"I really don't know whether I do or not. I suppose you mean Sir Charles."
Mrs. Sprowl turned red:
"Suppose what you like, you cold-blooded cad! But by God!—if you annoy that child I'll empty the family wash all over the sidewalk! And let the public pick it over!"
He rested his pale, protuberant eyes on her for a brief second:
"Will any of your finery figure in it? Any relics or rags once belonging to the late parent of Sir Charles?"
Her features were livid; her lips twisted, tortured under the flood of injuries which choked her. Not a word came. Exhausted for a moment she sat there grasping the gilded arms of her chair, livid as the dead save for the hell blazing in her tiny green eyes.
"I fancy that settles the laundry question," he said, while his restless glance ceaselessly swept the splendid room and his lean, sunburnt hand steadily caressed his moustache. Then, as though he had forgotten something, he rose and walked out. A footman invested him with hat and overcoat. A moment later the great doors clicked.