Helen has been looking into his eyes while he has spoken. She rises with an indescribable air. She says in an icy tone of reproof:
"You are intolerable, sir," and leaves the room.
Braine bites his lip. He sees his mistake--the first of its kind he ever made--and how unpardonable it must seem to a delicate woman like Helen! He is surprised and annoyed at himself, and finishing his breakfast quickly, hurries away.
The day drags slowly. Helen does not leave her room again. Everet calls, and she sends him word that she has a headache--to call in the evening, about half-past eight.
She means to get this matter off her hands at once. The situation--under the circumstances--is becoming unbearable. She can neither read nor write to-day, and time drags heavily.
When she recalls last night, and Braine's affront this morning, she feels her face tingle with mortification. That she should humiliate herself sufficiently to sue for Braine's caresses, and then be ignored, neglected, forgotten, was bad enough; that he should refer to the matter as _her_ disappointment was worse; but that he should remind her of her part in it, is not to be endured.
She finds herself biting her lip or clenching her hands until the pain reminds her of what she is doing.
Toward evening, she throws herself on the bed and sleeps.
Helen pulls the little curls about her temples, with an impatient twitch. Susanne does not reply, but seems to be a little more deft in her movements.
Helen is pale, and her face looks a little haggard; there is a peculiar brilliancy in her eyes; there is something vaguely pathetic in the droop of the corners of her mouth.
She sits quietly in her chair for a moment, evidently exerting herself to be calm. Susanne works intently at the heavy coils of her hair, and the gold pins she is skewering through it.
Presently, Helen leans forward to look at herself more closely in the mirror, and upsets a bottle of toilet water that deluges powders, brushes, toilet creams and the rest of the array on the low, French table.
She rises with an angry exclamation. She is quivering in every fibre. She says in a low voice, hoarse with irritation, nervousness, excitement:
"You may go. Get me a negligée first. I shall not dress to-night."