"To keep it! Haven't I?" he retorted. "What! when you forced it back on me! No, I will not give it you back! You may do what you like with the white one. You will fling it on the fire, I've no doubt. I can't help it. But this one, yours, I keep! It is mine. I will never part with it. And whenever I look at it I will remember how—until you discovered that I was not fit to associate with you, such a bad lot that you couldn't even keep a flower I gave you!—I'll remember that you have worn it near your heart."
White as herself, with a passion which had carried him beyond all bounds, he raised the red rose to his lips and kissed it, not once only but thrice.
Then, as he saw her face change, her lips tremble, his passion melted away, and all penitent and remorseful, he bent toward her.
"Forgive me!" he said, as if half bewildered; "I—I didn't know what I was saying. I—I am a savage! Yes, that's the name for me! Forgive me, and—good-bye!"
He lingered on the words till they seemed to fill the room with their music, low as they had been spoken. Then he turned.
Margaret found her voice.
"My lord—Lord Leyton. Stop!"
He stopped and turned.
"Give me back the rose, please," she said, firmly.
"No!" he said, his eyes flashing again. "Nothing in this world would induce me to give it to you, or to any one else. I'll keep it till I die! I'll keep it to remind me of last night—and of you!"