"You've made your wife afraid of you."
Osmond changed his position; he leaned forward,resting his elbows on his knees and looking a while at a beautiful old Persian rug, at his feet. He had an air of refusing to accept any one's valuation of anything,even of time, and of preferring to abide by his own; a peculiarity which made him at moments an irritating person to converse with. "Isabel's not afraid of me,and it's not what I wish," he said at last. "To what do you want to provoke me when you say such things as that?"