“Upon my word, you’re the most conceited man I ever knew in my life!  You think I’m in love with you!  With you!  Billy Woods, I wouldn’t wipe my feet on you if you were the last man left on earth!  I hate you, I loathe you, I detest you, I despise you!  Do you hear me?—­I hate you.  What do I care if you are a snob, and a cad, and a fortune-hunter, and a forger, and—­well, I don’t care!  Perhaps you haven’t ever forged anything yet, but I’m quite sure you would if you ever got an opportunity.  You’d be delighted to do it.  Yes, you would—­you’re just the sort of man who revels in crime.  I love you!  Why, that’s the best joke I’ve heard for a long time.  I’m only sorry for you, Billy Woods—­sorry because Kathleen has thrown you over—­sorry, do you understand?  Yes, since you’re so fond of skinny women, I think it’s a great pity she wouldn’t have you.  Don’t talk to me!—­she is skinny.  I guess I know.  She’s as skinny as a beanpole.  She’s skinnier than I ever imagined it possible for anybody—­anybody—­to be.  And she pads and rouges till I think it’s disgusting, and not half—­not one-half—­of her hair belongs to her, and that half is dyed.  But, of course, if you like that sort of thing, there’s no accounting for tastes, and I’m sure I’m very sorry for you, even though personally I don’t care for skinny women.  I hate ’em!  And I hate you, too, Billy Woods!”

She stamped her foot, did Margaret.  You must bear with her, for her heart is breaking now, and if she has become a termagant it is because her shamed pride has driven her mad.  Bear with her, then, a little longer.

Billy tried to bear with her, for in part he understood.

“Peggy,” said he, very gently, “you’re wrong.”

“Yes, I dare say!” she snapped at him.

“We won’t discuss Kathleen, if you please.  But you’re wrong about the will.  I’ve told you the whole truth about that, but I don’t blame you for not believing me, Peggy—­ah, no, not I. There seems to be a curse upon Uncle Fred’s money.  It brings out the worst of all of us.  It has changed even you, Peggy—­and not for the better, Peggy.  You’ve become distrustful.  You—­ah, well, we won’t discuss that now.  Give me the will, my dear, and I’ll burn it before your eyes.  That ought to show you, Peggy, that you’re wrong.”  Billy was very white-lipped as he ended, for the Woods temper is a short one.

But she had an arrow left for him.  “Give it to you!  And do you think I’d trust you with it, Billy Woods?”

“Peggy!—­ah, Peggy, I hadn’t deserved that.  Be just, at least, to me,” poor Billy begged of her.

Which was an absurd thing to ask of an angry woman.