“I don’t care to hear it.”
“But you’ve got to hear it,” he cried. “To leave your aunt and run off with a man you hardly know––why you must be mad even to think of it.”
“How dare you speak to me in this way?”
If ever a young lady’s fur was up, as the saying is, such was the case with the enraged Helen Burton. If her eyes had been weapons to slay, Travers Gladwin would have been annihilated at a glance. But he stuck doggedly to his guns.
“Well, somebody ought to speak to you,” he ran on. “Can’t you understand that this man is no good––that he must be a scoundrel to ask you to do such a thing, that”–––
“Stop! I forbid you to say any more––to say such 116 horrible, cowardly things about him behind his back. You, who claimed to be his dearest friend.”
Her anger was suddenly checked by a thought that flashed in her mind.
“Only a few minutes ago you said you were glad I was going to marry Mr. Gladwin, and that you would do everything in your power to help.”
“And I jolly well meant it,” he acquiesced, with a low bow.
“You meant it! Then how could you––oh,” and she started suddenly from him, “why didn’t I see it before? You’ve been drinking. Come, Sadie.”