The Ball at the Villa

"I am glad of that."

She turned the glare upon him.

"I am very glad of that, considering your part in the affair."

"Michael...!"

"Be careful. Michael is always a prelude to a temper. Have one of these,"
offering a nut.

She struck it rudely from his hand.

"Sometimes I am tempted to put my two hands around that exquisite neck of
yours."

"Try it."

"No, I do not believe it would be wise. But if ever I find out that you
have lied to me, that you loved the fellow and married me out of
spite...." He completed the sentence by suggestively crunching a nut.

The sullen expression on her face gave place to a smile. "I should like to
see you in a rage."

"No, my heart; you would like nothing of the sort. I understand you better
than you know; that accounts for my patience. You are Italian. You are
caprice and mood. I come from a cold land. If ever I do get angry, run,
run as fast as ever you can."

Flora was not, among other things, frivolous or light-headed. There was an
earthquake hidden somewhere in this quiet docile man, and the innate
deviltry of the woman was always trying to dig down to it. But she never
deceived herself. Some day this earthquake would open up and devour her.