“Just my rotten luck,” he muttered
Frothingham was still there, seated now at the open fire. “Ah—you! I’m glad you’ve come back,” he drawled.
“I want you to release me from my engagement,” she said.
His jaw dropped, and he stared stupidly at her. He could hardly believe that this impetuous, energetic creature was the languorous, affected, dreamy Catherine.
“I mean it,” she sped on. “I’ve no excuse to make for myself. But I can’t marry you. And you ought to be glad you’re rid of me.”
Her tone instantly convinced him that he was done for. He turned a sickly yellow, and put his head between his hands and stared into the fire. His brain was in a whirl. “Just my rotten luck,” he muttered.
“I don’t hope that you’ll forgive me,” she was saying. “You couldn’t have any respect for me. I’m only saving a few little shreds of self-respect. I’m——”
“You mustn’t do it, Catherine. You mustn’t, you——” he interrupted, rising and facing her.
“I must be free. I care for someone else. Don’t discuss it, please. Just say you let me go.”
“It ain’t right.” Cupidity and vanity were lashing his anger into a storm. “You can’t go back—you’ve gone too far. Why, we’re as good as married.”