He paced up and down the room, struggling for self-control. "Whether you acknowledge it or not, is immaterial," he said, stopping suddenly in front of her. "I claim it, and that is enough. You must give up this infernal flirtation with Gerard, or"——
"Or what?" she insisted haughtily, as he paused.
"I shall go to Gerard at once and tell him the truth," he concluded, defiantly.
Dead silence. The book she held fell from Elizabeth's nerveless hand. The steady ticking of the clock in the stillness seemed to beat an accompaniment to these words: "Don't deceive me—now, Elizabeth; I could forgive anything but that."
"Paul?" Her voice was no longer icy, but soft, with caressing tones. "Paul, you wouldn't be so unkind?"
"What difference does it make to you?" he said, eyeing her keenly, "whether I tell Gerard or not? You can't marry him, you know—it's impossible."
"I don't want to marry him," she said, gathering all her powers of resistance, "but—he's a friend of mine. I don't want him to be told things about me by—an outsider."
"Ah, you call me that!" he said, his anger roused again. "Well, outsider or not, I hold the cards. I shall go to Gerard at once and tell him that we were married—at Cranston, last July. If he doubts my assertion, the record is there, and it won't be very hard for him to verify it."
Silence again. Elizabeth sat musing, her brows knit, her under lip slightly thrust out, in a fashion that seemed to express all the obstinate resolve of her nature. "I will do as you wish, if you will keep silent."
"Will you write a note to Gerard," Paul demanded, "sending him away?"