“Is what Cahusac tells me true, Renie?” he cried impetuously—“about that scoundrel insulting you yesterday?”
“I told Elinor something.”
“And why did you not tell me last evening?”
“What use would there be in worrying you for nothing?” she replied evasively.
The light of the chandelier beneath which she was standing fell upon her averted face. The heaviness of her eyelids struck him; a crumpled ball of a handkerchief in her hand confirmed the betraying lids.
“And I come in unexpectedly and find you crying. You would not have told me the cause of that either.”
“I have no right to worry you,” she replied again.
“I wish to God I had the right to make you,” he cried passionately, goaded by the insult offered her and by the evidence of her unhappiness.
“I don’t think you do,” she said in a low voice.
“I?” he queried.