She ceased abruptly, holding out her hands to him with a plea for help, for friendship and an open door of escape that should not bear the sign “Matrimony” on the centre panel. Howard took her hands and bent over them, giving her the benefit, too, of his magnetic and confident smile. He saw in her appeal exactly the opportunity he needed.
“That, partly, is what hastens my offer. Gossip is inevitable. Why not forestall it? As a matter of fact, a young woman cannot remain alone—more especially if she is a widow, and beautiful.” He kissed her hand.
“And rich,” she said dryly—as if completing his sentence for him—and withdrew her hand.
“I—er—I hope you do not do me that injustice.” He spoke with hurt dignity.
“Oh, certainly not,” she answered flippantly. “That is always understood in offers of this kind.”
Howard was becoming angry. He told himself that he had not given up Mabel, whom he loved, and done the butter-maker’s daughter the honour to offer her himself in marriage, in order to let her insult him as the mood swayed her. He spoke calmly but with the accents of a superior.
“You are cynical, my dear. Are you worldly-wise enough to realize that Roseborough will make you marry?”
She walked away from him across the room.
“Yes, I know it. One link after another in the chain about me till I’m crushed flat,” desperately—“and old—old!” A sob escaped her. She picked up the pack of cards and tossed them loose over the table, as if her last chance of happiness were proved no more than bits of pasteboard and she had cast it from her as worthless. Wilton, thinking her agitation in his favour, went to her.
“Perhaps,” she said, eyeing him resentfully, “it might as well be you as any one.”