“You can hardly expect me to prefer you as you are now to the girl who sat on deck with me on the night of our wedding?”
This was the climax. She could not succeed in making him angry, but such a proof of irremediable bad taste destroyed the last remnants of Danaë’s temper. She snatched up a large pair of scissors from the table—she had been cutting pictures from a Vindobona fashion-paper before going to dress for the ball—and deliberately slashed a long jagged rent in the front of the green satin skirt.
“Now I hope you are pleased!” she cried. “I can never wear it again!” and bursting into stormy sobs she rushed away and into her own room. Ordering her maid out in a voice which made the insulted menial vow mutely to give notice at the first moment when her mistress looked less capable of stabbing her on the spot, she slammed and locked the door, and throwing herself on the bed, sobbed and raged half the night.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE TALLY.
Passing in the morning through the room which had been the scene of the quarrel of the night before, Armitage saw what looked like a heap of many-coloured silk on one of the lounges. Coming closer, he found that it was Danaë, fast asleep, and as he paused near her she woke.
“I was waiting for you, and I fell asleep,” she said, looking at him in a dazed way. Then she recollected herself, and slipped suddenly from the sofa. “Lord, grant me your forgiveness.” She was on her knees before him, trying to raise his foot and put it on her head, but he was happily able to prevent this.
“My dear girl, do get up!” he said anxiously. “I am not angry with you.”
“Then you ought to be,” replied Danaë’s muffled voice. “I shall stay here until you have forgiven me.”
“I forgive you fully and freely. Let me help you up.” But Danaë had sprung up without the help of the offered hand, and stood before him, evidently awaiting comment on her appearance. She was in her Striote dress again, the long close coat and plain skirt made of the silk he had sent her for the wedding, the gauze vest above and the embroidered apron below united by the voluminous girdle, and her hair, no longer waved and puffed, had returned to its two thick plaits, one unfortunately still a good deal shorter than the other.
“Lord,” she said softly, “it is the girl who sat at your feet that night on deck.”