She reflected a moment. "Yes. I ought to
have said--ingratitude, perhaps."
After having thus disengaged her brother and pushed the poor girl a
little further off as it were--isn't women's cleverness perfectly
diabolic when they are really put on their mettle?--after having done
these things and also made me feel that I was no match for her, she went
on scrupulously: "One doesn't like to use that word either. The claim is
very small. It's so little one could do for her. Still . . . "
"I dare say," I exclaimed, throwing diplomacy to the winds. "But really,
Mrs. Fyne, it's impossible to dismiss your brother like this out of the
business . . . "
"She threw herself at his head," Mrs. Fyne uttered firmly.
"He had no business to put his head in the way, then," I retorted with an
angry laugh. I didn't restrain myself because her fixed stare seemed to
express the purpose to daunt me. I was not afraid of her, but it
occurred to me that I was within an ace of drifting into a downright
quarrel with a lady and, besides, my guest. There was the cold teapot,
the emptied cups, emblems of hospitality.
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