but the man’s no good—no good!… He just won’t do!” Her tone was the tone of a powerful New Englander, of “fibre,” character and breeding, putting the final dogma of his judgment upon an inferior person who “just won’t do.”
And again, Starwick, two spots of bright colour burning in his cheeks, said coldly, quietly, and with an inflexible obstinacy:
“I resent that very much!”
He had apparently decided that Alec, the Frenchman they had met in a Montmartre bar one night, and who had accompanied them on most of their expeditions since, should be their guest in their forthcoming travels over France. Moreover, with that arrogant secretiveness that was characteristic of him, Frank had made an appointment to meet the Frenchman in Paris that evening, and had not until that morning informed anyone of his intentions. This was the cause of the quarrel.
As Eugene entered, they looked up at him indifferently, and resumed their quarrel; Ann came in a little later, sat down without speaking, and began to eat in sullen silence. It was an unpleasant meal. Elinor assumed her customary manner of gay, light raillery, but this time, in powerful contrast to her hilarious good spirits of the night before, she was full of spite and malice—the angry desire of her tormented spirit to sting and wound as if, by causing pain to others, she could in some measure assuage her own.
“Darling,” she said to Eugene, in her deft, malicious way, “I do hope you’re not going to forget all about me now that you’re deserting me?… Won’t you write me now and then to cheer me up?… Or is this going to be good-bye for ever!… Because, darling, if it is, I want you to say so right out… no matter how it hurts, I’d rather know the worst right now, so that I can go out in the garden and eat worms, or howl, or beat my head against the wall, or something,” she said drolly, but with a glint of spiteful motive in her eyes and in her smooth tone that left no doubt of her intention.—“Won’t you say it ain’t so, darling?… I mean, won’t you remember me long enough some time just to write a letter to me… I don’t care how short it is if you’ll just write and let me know that you still care!” she said maliciously. “Come on, darling,” she added coaxingly, leaning towards him, “say you will…. Promise to write me just a little letter… just a teeny-weeny little one like that,” she measured drolly between two fingers, and then, while he glared at her with a hot face and angry eyes, she got in the instant, deft, decisive stroke before he could think up an answer; and so concluded it:
