"If that isn't like a woman!" The man's tone was surcharged with disgust. "Cicily, I've had enough of this."
"Then, you won't fight?" An energetic shake of the head was the answer. "You won't help the men?" Again, the gesture of refusal. "You won't make any move at all?" A third time, the man silently denied her plea. "Then, I will!" Cicily concluded, defiantly. She leaned back in her chair, clasped her slender hands behind her head, and stared ceilingward, with the air of one who has pleasantly solved all the perplexities of life.
"Good heavens, what do you mean to do next?" Hamilton questioned, in frank alarm.
"Never mind: you'll see," came the nonchalant answer.
The contented air of the woman, coupled with her tone of assurance as she spoke, goaded the man to an assertion of authority.
"I demand that, as long as you're in my house—"
He was interrupted by the cold voice of his wife. She did not turn her eyes from their dreamy contemplation of the ceiling, nor did she alter in any way the languor of her posture, the indifference of her manner. But, somehow, the quality in her voice was insistent, and the gentle, musical tone broke on his delivery with a subtle force sufficient to halt it against his will.
"You can't demand," Cicily said, evenly. "We stopped that relationship three weeks ago."
"It is true," Hamilton answered, more quietly, "that you've refused to live with me as my wife. But, if you are to remain in my house, I must insist that you keep out of meddling with my business affairs. Otherwise, I shall be forced—"