Whittaker slowly and carefully, with all the force of his hands, disengaged her arms, but, once disengaged, he found his own of necessity engaged in holding her.
“Brat!” he said, on a low, half-laugh, and kissed her lightly.
“Oh,” she breathed with a relieved sigh that rose, softly, from the bottom of her heart. “It’s so long since you called me that. I love it. How _silly_ of us to quarrel, Bertrand. And be jealous! After all these years. To think you could ever have been so cruel as to pretend to tell about Durian to bring me back. Couldn’t you have found a pleasanter way, darling?”
Whittaker regarded her obliquely through half-shut eyes.
“Poor Neil,” she murmured. “But that’s for him to take care of, isn’t it?”
“I see it is.” She felt him shiver, but misinterpreted it.
He felt her take alarm again, with a defensive stiffening. She laughed shakily.
Suddenly, Romany sprang away from him and stood trembling from head to foot, and chattering with uncontrolled and unexpected rage.
“You are go-go-_going_ to tell.” She stuttered feverishly. “You are going to tell on all of us. You r-really mean it. Don’t you? D-don’t you?”
“Ah, you’ve figured it out, have you? Yes, I’m telling. How often must I say it to get it through your pretty head?”
“You brute! You beast! You—,” like a spoilt child Romany stamped. “You’re a hateful, cruel, wicked man. You can’t do it. Just you try. No one will let you. You’ll be killed first. You can’t do it to me, do you hear. I’ll kill you myself. You’ve got to leave me alone. Leave me _alone_. What do you think I killed him for? Because he betrayed me, didn’t I? And what are you doing to me? Betraying me, too. You look out, Bertrand Whittaker. There’s nothing I’ll stop at if I’m roused. No, not even murder.”
Whittaker shed Romany’s tantrum as a duck sheds water.
“Histrionics, baby,” he said. “You never can get far away from them, can you? Fifth-rate quotations from sixth-rate melodrama. Not that I don’t wish you meant your big threat. I do. But if you really mean to kill me, don’t shout about it. The house is listening, if I know the house. Do it on the quiet. Now run away home to your room, child, and think it over. I’ll drop in later, if I may, and get the results. Pity I haven’t the poor old diary by me and I’d mark you the passages about yourself. They’re quite thrilling. Make you out a sort of Medici, of the willow-wand variety. You should be honored.” Romany swayed. “Don’t faint, my dear, _again_. You do it too often. It’s becoming a vicious habit. The thing for you to do is to get to bed.” Whittaker worked her gently toward the door. “Goodnight—sleep tight—wake up—”