“No,” she said, as if to herself, “it is not fair. And I have made up my mind. I had made it up before I came into the room.”
“You had?” he breathed, evidently in an agony of conflicting hope and fear.
“Yes, Mr. Bradstone, I mean to accept your proposal if—if you would promise me the money.”
He came forward with a half-fearful promptitude, and an inarticulate cry of satisfaction.
“You say ‘Yes,’ Olivia! If I will promise you! Why, I’d lay every penny I possess at your feet this moment, if you wished it.” And he really quite believed his capacity for such a sacrifice. “Every penny. Oh, how happy you have made me!”
He drew nearer, and timidly took her hand in both his, and fondled it with humble eagerness.
And as she let her hand remain, there flashed through her mind, her heart, the passionate face of Harold Faradeane; there had been no timidity, no servility in his fierce caresses for the few short moments they lasted.
She allowed him to hold her hand in his for a minute or so, then slowly withdrew it, and walked to the window. He followed her hesitatingly.
“May I stay?” he asked.
“No!” she said, not coldly, but with a terrible calmness. “I want to think—I would rather——”