“And you’ve made up your mind? You’d better think it over,” she said, threateningly.
He looked at her.
“I have thought it over, and my mind has been made up months, years ago,” he said. “I always knew that you would not be satisfied until you had brought yourself and me to further shame; that the time would come when you would find me, track me down, and adopt the course you are taking, and I am, therefore, prepared.”
“You’d best think it over,” she said, huskily. “I—I don’t want to drive you too hard. Look here, I’ll give you till to-morrow night; if you come to your senses by that time and decide that—that”—the color came and went in her face—“we are to be friends, we needn’t stay in England. I don’t care where we go.” Her voice faltered, and her dark eyes dropped under his calm, steady gaze. “If you’ll be sensible, things might be all right between us even now.”
He smiled grimly.
“Yes, they might. Anyhow, I’ll give you till to-morrow night. I’ll be here at”—she paused a moment—“at six o’clock.”
“My answer will still be the same,” he said, quietly. “But take the time, and reflect yourself; reflect well and wisely. I am immovable. But you know that.”
“You’ll sing a different tune to-morrow,” she said, threateningly; and she walked toward the gate.
He held the lamp to light her and opened the gate courteously.
“Wait,” he said. “Do you want money?”