“Is this the little Mary I used to know?” inquired Henry Churchill, employing an old formula.
“No, it isn’t. I’ve grown up a lot.”
“Grown into bad ways,” said Henry Churchill, getting deeper into trouble. “Come, come, Mary, let us forget this unhappy chapter of your life and begin again with a clean sheet.”
“I’ve got a clean sheet.” She stamped her foot. “How dare you talk to me as if I was a wicked woman!”
“I am trying to prevent such a thing.”
“Funny way of doing it. If anything does happen to me, it’ll be your fault. I hope—I hope I go thoroughly to the bad—just to pay you out.”
“I forbid you to say such things.”
“You forbid! You have no control over me. I lead my life in my own way—with my art.”
Considering that Henry’s main desire was to placate her wrath, his response of “I don’t see how you can call being one of a crowd ‘Art,’ ” was as infelicitous as you could wish.
Mary rose with the single word “Cad!” and, flinging the white fox about her shoulders, swept from the room.