To myself I was assuming that they had come to "make up and be
friends"--and resume their places at the trough.
She was moving toward the door, the old man in her wake. Neither of them
offered to shake hands with me; neither made pretense of saying good-by
to Anita, standing by the window like a pillar of ice. I had closed the
drawing-room door behind me, as I entered. I was about to open it for them
when I was restrained by what I saw working in the old woman's face. She
had set her will on escaping from my loathed presence without a "scene;"
but her rage at having been outgeneraled was too fractious for her will.
"You scoundrel!" she hissed, her whole body shaking and her
carefully-cultivated appearance of the gracious evening of youth swallowed
up in a black cyclone of hate. "You gutter-plant! God will punish you for
the shame you have brought upon us!"
I opened the door and bowed, without a word, without even the desire to
return insult for insult--had not Anita evidently again and finally
rejected them and chosen me? As they passed into the private hall I
rang for Sanders to come and let them out. When I turned back into the
drawing-room, Anita was seated, was reading a book.
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