"How rich?" asked Dom, raising herself a little.
"Oh, about forty thousand a year."
"Rupees?"
"No, pounds; there are no rupees in England. He has eyes like two bits of granite, and a long chin; he wears a tall white hat and black stock, and lifts his feet high off the ground as if they did not fit him. I've often laughed at his way of walking. He is crazy about pedigree and position, and Jimmy is his only remaining son. If he makes an unsatisfactory marriage—for instance, if he were to marry a girl without position or fortune—it would be his deathblow!"
"So much the better," said Dominga, springing to her feet.
"But Dom, do listen. Captain Fielder can never make you his wife—do give him up."
"Do you think he will give me up?" she demanded, in a low, grating voice.
"Well, promise me at least that you won't meet him at night again. Promise, Dom, on your word of honour."
"I promise," she responded, in a passionate whisper; "and now, Verona, listen! if you are false to me, I will"—she paused for a second, in order to formulate a threat and deal adequate vengeance. Her ear caught a rustle on the dressing-table—yes! there was naughty little Johnny, out of his bed at that time of night, sitting up, and watching the sisters with his two glittering black eyes.
"I won't say I'll kill you," resumed Dom, "for you wouldn't care—oh, I know your mind—but I will kill Johnny, I will burn him—yes, I'll roast him alive, and that would hurt you!"