He did not seem to be aware of her. He was staring at the flags, the lights, the flowers, and the colored paper.
"It is true then," he muttered. "These things...."
The woman was as white as death. Her hands were locked together. She swayed.
"What is true?" she gasped.
The young man took no notice of her. Copplestone's elderly manservant appeared in the doorway, and approached him.
"Mr. Copplestone declines to see you, sir—and requests that you will leave his house. I have orders, otherwise, to send for the police."
The young man drew himself up. He was suddenly quite composed and dignified. The passion died out of his face, leaving an expression almost of contentment in its place.
"I wish it to be understood," he said, addressing himself to the room generally with perfect evenness, "that, rather than allow Christine Manderson to become engaged to George Copplestone, I will tear her to pieces with my own hands, and utterly destroy her." And he turned, and walked quietly out of the room.
In the silence that followed all eyes were fixed on the white, rigid woman. Her face was drawn and haggard. She seemed to have grown old and weak. Her whole frame appeared to have shrunk under an overwhelming blow. For some moments she stood motionless. Then, with a supreme effort of self-control, she turned, and faced them steadily.
"I think," she said calmly, "that if Miss Manderson is in the house she should be warned."