I 'll never let you inside the house again until you go down on your knees and beg Jimmie's pardon,” cried Aline.
She stood, a slim incarnation of outraged womanhood, with her hand on the knob of the open door. A scared but stubborn youth hesitated on the threshold. Few men, least of all lovers, like being turned out.
“I don't believe you care a hang for me!” he said.
“I don't,” she retorted bravely, but with tremulous lip. “Not a hang, as you call it. I dislike you exceedingly and I don't want to see you any more. I'll never speak to anybody who believes such things of Jimmie.”
“But, my good child,” expostulated Tony Merewether, “they are facts; he never has denied them.”
“He could if he liked.”
“How do you know?”
“How do I know?” Aline repeated scornfully. “That just shows how far we are apart. There's not the slightest reason for talking any more. You have insulted Jimmie and you are going on insulting him. I can't stand by this door forever. I want you to go.”
“Oh, very well, I'll go,” said the young fellow. “But you've behaved damnably to me, Aline—simply damnably.” He strode down the passage and slammed the front door behind him. Aline turned back into the prim little drawing-room where the interview had taken place, and after an attempt to remain composed and dignified, suddenly broke into tears. She could struggle no more against the cruelty of man and the hopelessness of life. It had been a stormy interview. Tony Merewether had come, as her natural protector, to insist upon immediate marriage. A small legacy recently bequeathed to him would enable them to marry with reasonable prudence. Why should they wait? Aline pleaded for time. How could she leave her beloved Jimmie in his blackest hour?
“It's just because I don't think it quite right for you to live here any longer, that I want you to come away at once,” Tony had said.