“A woman's reason, my dear.”
“And the very, very bestest reason in the world. I just—know it!”
“But …” an ejaculation, typically, malely irascible.
“But—nothing, dad! Nobody with eyes like his can possibly be guilty of such a mean thing as cheating at cards. And then—remember how he used his blade, dad!” she had added with serene, unblushing inconsequence.
He had begun to think of speeches, very firm, explicit, and didactic speeches, he would make, pointing out to her that London, all Europe in fact, was full of fortune hunters, that he was an immensely wealthy man and she a famous heiress, that perhaps Hector Wade had staged the fight near St. Katherine so as to meet her in a picturesque setting.
But, knowing her stubbornness, her sense of absolute independence, he had thought that it would be better to let well enough alone, and had satisfied himself with a grumbled “I had an idea that, with all your social experiences, here and in New York and in Paris, you'd have more sense than to fall for that sort of …” he had come near saying “bunk,” but had recovered in time and had said “thing!”
The choice of words had been unfortunate.
Jane had made a rash reply, and by the end of the scene—for it had degenerated into a scene—for the first time in their lives they had felt conscious of a certain antagonism toward each other. It had been as sudden as it had been unexpected.
And it had hurt—both.
