"Those words mean something," I said, earnestly.
Tears came into her eyes.
"Mr. Camran, do you think it is fair to press me like this?" she asked, with a sob.
"There is an adage," I replied, "that all is fair in love. To give you up means to shatter my existence. I have been a reckless boy. With you as my wife I would make a worthy man—worthy of you, of myself, of the noble line from which I sprung. I fear, and I say it deliberately, that if I lose you I shall sink again into the depths from which I have escaped."
"All that," she said, gently, "you said when your friend Statia gave you the same answer I am compelled to give now."
"It is jealousy!" I exclaimed, excitedly. "You are angry because I asked her, before I had even seen you! Very well. But, understand what you are doing! I cannot go through the agony I suffered a year ago."
She sprang up, as if to ward off an impending danger, and came so near that her face was within six inches of mine.
I looked her squarely in the eyes.
"You cannot fascinate me in that way!" I cried, bitterly. "You have ruined a man who has taken you from poverty and given you for two months, at least, the life of a lady. Don't put your hands on me!" as she attempted to touch my shoulder. "I have finished with you. Take the advance payment you have had and go to your home, if you have one. But, remember, by your own agreement, the clothes in which you stand belong to me. Take them off before you leave this room, give them up, or I will strip them from you by force!"
I do not know that I am quoting my exact words, but I am sure this was the sentiment that, in my rage, I expressed. At the moment I hated the woman more than I had loved her a few minutes before.