He drew back and looked at her fixedly, grimly.
“Of course it was—Bertie. I—knew. Yes, I knew,” and she almost stamped her foot, “and I meant to tell you, if you had given me time that—that it was—‘No!’”
“No!” he echoed.
“No!” she repeated, almost fiercely. “No—a hundred times! Go and tell him so—and tell him that if I loved him as he says he—he loves me, I would not stoop to marry a man who sends another to—to—plead for him.”
He still looked at her with a grim, fixed gaze.
“Is that your answer?” he asked, in so low a tone that it was almost inaudible.
“It is!” she responded, with a pant. “Why do you not go? You can tell him,” with a cruel smile, “that you did your best, that you are not to be blamed; that if he had had any chance you would have succeeded in your—mission. Yes,” with a strange thrill, “you—you did your best!”
He stood with his hands behind his back, his head lowered under the storm of her fierce, maiden passion.
“Why do you not go?” she repeated, impatiently, “or do you wish me to?”
He held up his hands as if to stay her; then, not even lifting his hat, turned and left her.