She glanced from the glittering silver river to Salwey, who sat on the edge of the parapet leaning towards her, the shining flood at his back threw into strong relief his square shoulders and well-poised head. She looked into his face—his strong, stern face—his steady blue eyes, which were fixed gravely on her own, and anxiously awaiting her reply.
Another dance had commenced, and the distant music filled the air with a low, humming noise. Close by (with a partner and atmosphere of "Ess Bouquet") sat Blanche, squeaking, giggling and jingling her bangles. "Oh, you nartie man—be quiett! be quiett!" and there was a sound of a brisk smack; "you shall not say so. No-a! No-a!"
If Verona's mind had been momentarily undecided, her sister Blanche now recalled her to her senses and hardened her heart to a fixed resolution.
"Mr. Salwey, you have taken me by surprise. You have done me a great honour," here she paused.
"There!" he ejaculated; "I know—that's what girls always say when they mean to let a fellow down easy."
"I could not marry you—I will never marry any one."
"What is your reason?" he asked sharply.
"Need you enquire? I will never be a party to what is called a 'mixed marriage.'"
"As, for example?"
"As, for example, my own father and mother."