"You know I would!"
Mr. Dalrymple drew a long breath. It was rather a critical moment. But he was no boy, at the mercy of the wind and waves of his own emotions, and Rachel's evident weakness of self-control was an appeal to his strength that he was not the man to disregard. Still it was wonderful how actively during these last few minutes he had come to hate Mr. Kingston, whom he had never seen.
"I suppose," he said presently, "I must not ask the reason for this preposterous proceeding?"
"Do not," she pleaded gently. "There is no reason, really. It is but Mr. Kingston's whim."
"And are you determined to sacrifice me to Mr. Kingston's whim?"
She did not speak, and he repeated his query in a more imperious fashion.
"Are you really going to throw me over altogether, Miss Fetherstonhaugh? I only want to know."
She looked up at him piteously, and he softened at once.
"Tell me what I am to do," he said, in a low voice. "Do you wish me not to ask you for any dances? It is a horrible thing—it is enough to make me wish I had gone to Queensland on Monday, after all—but I will not bother you. Tell me, am I not to ask you at all?"
"If you please," she whispered with a quick sigh, full of despairing resignation. "I am very sorry, but it is right to do what Mr. Kingston wishes."