Lloyd Pryor pushed her hand away, impatiently. "I'm not anxious for
his friendship or even his acquaintance. You will please consider what
would have happened if I had not come home just as he arrived!" He
paused, his voice hardening: "My daughter saw him."
Helena stepped back, wincing and silent.
"You will be so good as to consider the result of such tomfoolery--to
me."
"And what about me?" she said. "Your 'daughter'--I suppose you mean
Alice--is not the only person in the world!"
But Lloyd Pryor, having dealt his blow, was gracious again. "My dear,
you needn't begin recriminations. Of course, I speak on your account
as much as on my own. It would have been--well, awkward, all round.
You must see that it does not occur again. You will not get on terms
with these people that will encourage them to look me up. You
understand?"
She looked at him, terror-stricken. In all their squabbles and
differences--and there had been many in the last few years--he had
never spoken in this extraordinary tone. It was not anger, it was not
the courteous brutality with which she was more or less familiar; it
was superiority. The color swept into her face; even her throat
reddened. She said stammering, "I don't know why you speak--in--in
this tone--"
"I am not going to speak any more in any tone," he said lightly;
"there's the stage! Good-by, my dear. I trust your boy may recover
rapidly.
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