‘What my aunts will think?’ asked Constance coolly—‘Oh yes, I’ve considered all that.’
She walked away, and came back, a little pale and grave. She sat down on the arm of a chair and looked up at him.
‘I see. You are as proud as ever.’
That hurt him. His face changed.
‘You can’t really think that,’ he said, with difficulty.
‘Yes, yes, you are!’ she said, wildly, covering her eyes a moment with her hands. ‘It’s just the same as it was in the spring—only different—I told you then—’
‘That I was a bully and a cad!’
Her hands dropped sharply.
‘I didn’t!’ she protested. But she coloured brightly as she spoke, remembering certain remarks of Nora’s. ‘I thought—yes, I did think—you cared too much about being rich—and a great swell—and all that. But so did I!’ She sprang up. ‘What right had I to talk? When I think how I patronised and looked down upon everybody!’
‘You!’ His tone was pure scorn. ‘You couldn’t do such a thing if you tried for a week of Sundays.’