“All right,” said Corinna. “This is mere talk. What do you want with me?”
“To ask you, my dear Corinna,” replied Fortinbras, in his persuasive tones, “why you have disregarded my advice?”
“And what was your advice?”
“To do nothing headstrong, violent and lunatic until we met again.”
“You should have come sooner. I find I am living now on Martin’s charity and the time has come to put all this rubbish aside and go home to my people with my tail between my legs. It’s vastly pleasant, I assure you.”
“Oh, young woman of little faith!—Why did you not put your trust in me, instead of in callow medical students with ridiculous mothers?”
Corinna flushed crimson and her eyes hardened in anger. “I suppose every gossiping tongue in this horrid little hotel has been wagging. That’s why I’m going off now, so that they can wag in my absence.”
“But my dear Penthesilea,” said Fortinbras soothingly, “why get so angry? Every living soul in this horrid hotel is on your side. They would give their eyes and ears to help you and sympathise with you and shew you that they love you.”
“I don’t want their sympathy,” said Corinna stubbornly.
“Or any human expression of affection or regret? You want just to pay your bill like any young woman in an automobile who has put up for the night and go your way?”