Pembroke could say nothing. After a pause, Madame Koller burst out.
"Pembroke, that girl is made of iron. She cares nothing for you—for anybody but herself."
"And did you find out any of those things by asking her?" he inquired.
The twilight was so upon them that Madame Koller could not well see Pembroke's face, but she realized the tone of suppressed rage in his voice. She herself had a temper that was stormy, and it flamed out at that tone.
"Yes, I asked her. Are you a man that you can reproach me with it?"
It is difficult for a man, if he is a gentleman, to express his wrath toward a woman. Pembroke was infuriated at the idea that Madame Koller should go to Olivia Berkeley and ask prying questions. He ground his teeth with wrath as he looked at Madame Koller standing before him, in the half light.
"What a price I have had to pay for folly," he cried furiously. "A little damned love-making in a garden—" he was so savage that he was not choice of words and fell into profanity as men naturally do—"a half dozen notes and bouquets—Great God! Is there anything in that which should be a curse to a man's whole life! And I love Olivia Berkeley. I could make her love me, but—but for you."
His violence sobered Madame Koller at once.
"There was not much, certainly," she responded
