“Then you have been making love to the young man from the grocer’s?”
She nodded again. I began to conceive a violent dislike to the grocer’s young man. It was one of the most humiliating sensations I have experienced. I think I have seen the individual—a thick-set, red-headed, freckled nondescript.
“What did you do it for?” I asked.
“He wanted to make love to me,” replied Carlotta.
“He is a young scamp,” said I.
“What is a scamp?” she asked sweetly.
“I am not giving you a lesson in philology,” I remarked. “Do you know that you have been behaving in a shocking manner?”
“Now you are cross with me.”
“Yes,” I said, “infernally angry.”
And I was. I expected to see her burst into tears. She did nothing of the kind; only looked at me with irritating demureness. She wore a red blouse and a grey skirt, and the audacious high-heeled red slippers. I began to feel the return of my early prejudice against her. Nobody so alluring could possess a spark of virtue.