"My dear woman," said Billy, in surprise bordering on consternation, "you don't mean you wish us to believe that you believe that Dic insulted Rita?"
"Yes, I saw him insult her. I saw it with my own eyes."
"In what manner?" demanded Dic.
He was beginning to grasp the meaning of her accusation, and was breathing heavily from suppressed excitement. Before she could reply he fully understood, and a wave of just anger swept over him.
"Old woman, you know you lie!" he cried. "I revere the tips of Rita's fingers, and no unholy thought of her has ever entered my mind. I insult her! You boast of your mother's love. You have no love for her of any sort. You have given her nothing but hard, cold cruelty all her life under the pretence—perhaps belief—that you were kind; but if your love were the essence of mother love, it would be as nothing compared to my man's love for the girl who will one day be my wife and bear my children."
The frightened old woman shrank from Dic and silently took a chair by the window. Then Dic turned to the bed, saying:—
"Forgive me, Rita, forgive me. I was almost beside myself for a moment. Tell me that you know I would not harm you."
"Of course you would do me no harm," she replied sobbing. "You could not. You would be harming yourself. But how could you speak so violently to my mother? You were terrible, and I was frightened. How could you? How could you?"
"I was wild with anger—but I will explain to you some day when you are my wife. I will not remain in this house. I must not remain, but I will come to you when you are well. You will write me, and I will come. You want me, don't you, Rita?"
"As I want nothing else in all the world," she whispered, taking his face between her hands.