Columbine's face was burning red; her eyes literally blazed. Her whole body vibrated as if strung on wires. "How--dare you?" she said, and showed her white teeth with the words like an angry tigress.
He looked down at her, a faint smile in his blue eyes. "But I don't drink--alone," he said in such a tone of gentle explanation as he might have used to a child.
She stamped her foot. "I hate you!" she said. "I'll never forgive you!"
"A joke's a joke," said Rufus, still in the tone of a mild instructor.
"A joke!" Her wrath enwrapped her like a flame. "It was not a joke! It was a coarse--and hateful--trick!"
"All right," said Rufus, as one giving up a hopeless task.
"It's not all right!" flashed Columbine. "You're a bounder, an oaf, a brute! I--I'll never speak to you again, unless--you--you--apologise!"
He was still looking down with that vague hint of amusement in his eyes--the look of a man who watches the miniature fury of some tiny creature.
"I'll do anything you like," he said with slow indulgence. "I didn't know you'd turn nasty, or I wouldn't have done it."
"Nasty!" echoed Columbine. And then her wrath went suddenly into a superb gust of scorn. "Oh, you--you are beyond words!" she said. "You had better get along to the bar and drink there. You'll find your own kind there to drink with."
She uttered a laugh that was tremulous with anger. "You've done it for the first and last time, my man," she said.
With the words she turned like a darting, indignant bird, and left him.
Someone was entering the drawing-room from the hall with a careless, melodious whistle--a whistle that ended on a note of surprise as Columbine sped through the room. The whistler--a tall, bronzed young man in white flannels--stopped short to regard her.
His eyes were grey and wary under absolutely level brows. His hair was dark, with an inclination--sternly repressed--to waviness above the forehead. He made a decidedly pleasant picture, as even Adam could not have denied.
Columbine also checked herself at sight of him, but the red blood was throbbing at her temples. There was no hiding her agitation.
"You seem in a hurry," remarked Knight. "I hope there is nothing wrong."
His chin was modelled on firm lines, but there was a very distinct cleft in it that imparted to him the look of one who could smile at most things. His words were kindly, but they did not hold any very deep concern.