Her eyes, and her voice, which had a new, frightening quality, stung his quick temper. What he had suffered a moment ago was a little sacred. He couldn't afford to let her cheapen it one cent's worth.
"I guess I don't need to repeat it," he said. "It was scared out of me, Miss Sylvia, because I thought—I know it was silly—but I thought you were dead. I never dreamed you could hear. I'll try to forget it."
He saw her grope in the wet grass at her knees. Scarcely understanding, he watched her rise, lifting her riding crop, her face disclosing a temper to match his own.
"You're an impertinent servant," she said. "Well, you'll not forget."
She struck at his face with the crop. He got his hand up just in time, and caught her wrist.
"Don't you touch me," she whispered.
His jaw went out.
"You'll learn not to be afraid of my touch, and I'm not a servant. You get that straight."
She struggled, but he held her wrist firmly. The sight of the crop, the memory of her epithet, thickened his voice, lashed his anger.
"Have it your own way. You say I shan't forget, and I won't. I'm going after you, and I usually get what I go after. You'll find I'm a human being, and I'd like to see anybody hit me in the face and get away with it."