"The idea," he muttered, "of her criticising
Isabel!"
His wounded sensibilities impelled him to walk past the Bernard house,
very slowly, two or three times, but there was no one in sight. He went
to the post-office as a mere matter of habit; there was seldom any mail
for the Crosbys except on the first of the month, when the lawyer's
formal note, "enclosing remittance," came duly to hand. Nobody seemed to
be around--there was nothing to do. It would have been natural to go
back home, but he was too angry for that, and inwardly vowed to stay
away long enough to bring Juliet to her senses.
He recalled the night he had called upon Isabel and had not reached home
until late. He remembered the torrent of tears and Juliet's cry: "Oh,
Romie! Romie! I don't care where you've been as long as I've got you
back!" It pleased his masculine sense of superiority to know that he had
power over a woman's tears--to make them come or go, as he chose.
He sauntered slowly toward Kent's, thinking that he might while away an
hour or two there. It was a long time until midnight, and there seemed
to be nothing to do but to sit and wait.
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