All that was healthy and normal in Joan broke into revolt. There was
something erotic, uncanny about all this. Life or death? What was he
talking about? Her pride, too, which had never been put to such a test,
was up in arms against the unfairness and cunning of the way in which
she had been taken advantage of. She had meant to be kind and pay
something of her debt to this man, and it was a vulgar trap, whatever
he said in excuse. Let him dare to touch her. Let him dare. She would
show him how strong she was and put up such a fight as would amaze him.
Just now she had placed herself among those old people and old trees,
because she had suffered. But she was young, tingling with youth, and
her slate was clean, notwithstanding the fool game that she had played,
and she would keep it clean, if she had to fight her way out.
She took up her stand behind the table, alert and watchful.
"I don't get you when you go in for melodrama," she said. "I much
prefer your usual way of talking. Translate for me." She spoke
scornfully because hitherto she had been able to turn him off by scorn.
But it didn't work this time. It was not anger that came into his eyes,
only an unexpected and disconcerting reproach. He made no attempt to go
near her. He looked extraordinarily patient and gentle. She had never
seen him like this before. "Don't stand there," he said. "Come and sit
down and let's go into this sensibly, like people who have emerged from
stupidity. In any case you are not going back to Easthampton to-night."