“I have thought, George,” responded Angelina Mc-Laurin, with an air of sorrowful firmness. “There is but one alternative: saw short off,—saw short off on golf, or give me up forever!”
“Is this some horrid dream?” he hissed, as he strode up and down the library.
At last he paused before her.
“Woman,” he said sternly, “look on me! Is this some lightsome bluff, or does it go? Dost mean it, woman?”
“Ay! I mean it!” answered Angelina, while her cheek paled and her breath came quick and fast. “Don't make any mistake on that; I mean it. My talk goes. And my hand is off my chips.”
“Is this your love?” he sneered, bitterly.
“It is,” she faltered. “I have spoken, and I abide your answer.”
“Then, girl,” said George Maurice St. John, and his words were cold and hard, “all is over between us. You would drive me into a corner and take away my golf! I say No! No! a thousand times, No!”
At this outbreak the curve in Angelina's nose became more intense. She dried her eyes. Her features, too, became as flint. She even cut loose a low, mocking laugh.
“Be it so!” she said; “sirrah, take your ring!”