"Taylor? Taylor?" She repeated the name as if uncertain. "I remember no Taylor; and yet----"
"You remember? You remember? You know very well whom you remember!" Mr. Smith cried, impatiently. "It is the likeness you are thinking of! Why, it is as plain, woman, as the nose on his face. It is so plain that if I had brought him in by the front door----"
"And kept his mouth shut!" She interposed.
"No one would have been the wiser."
"Well," she said, grudgingly, and eyeing me with her head aside, "it is near enough."
"It is the thing!" he cried, with an oath.
"As a Chelsea orange is a China orange!" she answered, contemptuously.
At that he looked at her in a sort of dark fury, precisely, so it seemed to me, as Ferguson had looked at him an hour before. "By heaven, you vixen," he cried in the end, surprise and rage contending in his tone, "I believe you love him still!"
Her back being towards me I did not see her face, but the venom in her tone when she answered, made my blood creep. "Well," she said, slowly, "and if I do? Much good may it do him!"
Ambiguous as were the words--but not the tone--the man shrugged his shoulders. "Then what are we waiting for?" he asked, irritably.