“What you do or think, Stewart, is no concern of mine.”
“Miss—Miss Hammond! You don’t believe—” faltered Stewart.
The crimson receded from his face, leaving it pale. His eyes were appealing. They had a kind of timid look that struck Madeline even in her anger. There was something boyish about him then. He took a step forward and reached out with his hand open-palmed in a gesture that was humble, yet held a certain dignity.
“But listen. Never mind now what you—you think about me. There’s a good reason—”
“I have no wish to hear your reason.”
“But you ought to,” he persisted.
“Sir!”
Stewart underwent another swift change. He started violently. A dark tide shaded his face and a glitter leaped to his eyes. He took two long strides—loomed over her.
“I’m not thinking about myself,” he thundered. “Will you listen?”
“No,” she replied; and there was freezing hauteur in her voice. With a slight gesture of dismissal, unmistakable in its finality, she turned her back upon him. Then she joined her guests.