"What do you think of my speech, Hylda?" he asked, as he threw himself
into a chair. "I see you have been reading it. Is it a full report?"
She handed the paper over. "Quite full," she answered evenly.
He glanced down the columns. "Sentimentalists!" he said as his eye
caught an interjection. "Cant!" he added. Then he looked at Hylda, and
remembered once again on whom and what his speech had been made. He saw
that her face was very pale.
"What do you think of my speech?" he repeated stubbornly.
"If you think an answer necessary, I regard it as wicked and
unpatriotic," she answered firmly.
"Yes, I suppose you would," he rejoined bitingly. She got to her feet
slowly, a flush passing over her face. "If you think I would, did you
not think that a great many other people would think so too, and for the
same reason?" she asked, still evenly, but very slowly. "Not for the
same reason," he rejoined in a low, savage voice.
"You do not treat me well," she said, with a voice that betrayed no hurt,
no indignation. It seemed to state a fact deliberately; that was all.
"No, please," she added quickly, as she saw him rise to his feet with
anger trembling at his lips. "Do not say what is on your tongue to say.
Let us speak quietly to-night. It is better; and I am tired of strife,
spoken and unspoken. I have got beyond that. But I want to speak of
what you did to-day in Parliament."
"Well, you have said it was wicked and unpatriotic," he rejoined, sitting
down again and lighting a cigar, in an attempt to be composed.
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