"By what, Aunt Hilda?" It was the old way of gaining time.
"You heard that child, I presume. Such an exposé. All children are odious, but that child of Mrs. Poynter's—However, I have nothing to do with her. It is with you, Agatha, I have to do. Am I to understand that you are determined to take your own way— to try your will against mine?"
"Why should you talk to me like that?" cried the girl with great agitation. "Do I not know what you have done for me—how you have saved me from starvation? But, Aunt Hilda, what can I do? Would you have me marry a man I hate?"
"A man, however, whom you will marry," said Mrs. Greatorex with cold decision. "The marriage is arranged, Agatha. Dr. Darkham and I have been talking it over, and we have arranged that the marriage is to take place next April."
"The marriage will never take place," said Agatha.
"You are a mere child, and do not know what is good for you," said Mrs. Greatorex. "You have insane fancies that can never come to anything. I really believe you think yourself in love with that young man whom Reginald Greatorex has foisted on us, and who has not so much as done you the honour to ask you in marriage."
"You are wrong there," said Agatha, in a low tone, but such a triumphant one. "Dr. Dillwyn has asked me to marry him."
"He has!" Mrs. Greatorex turned upon her, her light brown eyes flashing. "And you never told me. Is this your return to me for all my goodness?"
"How could I speak?" Agatha was white to her lips. "How could I? You would have been so angry—you would not listen—you—-"
She would have tried to go on and explain, but Mrs. Greatorex broke into her disjointed, terrified speech in a sort of fury.