"You are not worth my anger!" she said slowly, this time without a
tremor in her rich voice. "One must have something to be angry with, and
you--you are nothing! Neither man nor beast,--for men are brave, and
beasts tell no lies! Your wife! I!" and she laughed aloud,--then with a
gesture of command, "Go!" she exclaimed, "and never let me see your face
again!"
The clear scornful laughter,--the air of absolute authority with which
she spoke,--would have stung the most self-opinionated of men, even
though his conscience were enveloped in a moral leather casing of
hypocrisy and arrogance. And, notwithstanding his invariable air of
mildness, Mr. Dyceworthy had a temper. That temper rose to a white heat
just now,--every drop of blood receded from his countenance,--and his
soft hands clenched themselves in a particularly ugly and threatening
manner. Yet he managed to preserve his suave composure.
"Alas, alas!" he murmured. "How sorely my soul is afflicted to see you
thus, Froeken! I am amazed--I am distressed! Such language from your
lips! oh fie, fie! And has it come to this! And must I resign the hope I
had of saving your poor soul? and must I withdraw my spiritual
protection from you?" This he asked with a suggestive sneer of his prim
mouth,--and then continued, "I must--alas, I must! My conscience will
not permit me to do more than pray for you! And as is my duty, I shall,
in a spirit of forbearance and charity, speak warningly to Sir Philip
concerning--"
But Thelma did not permit him to finish his sentence.
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