“You can say what you have to say before Mr. Ennison, if at all,” Anna declared calmly. “In any case, I decline to see you alone.”
“Very well,” the man answered. “I have come to tell you this. You are my wife, and I am determined to claim you. We were properly married, and the certificate is at my lawyer’s. I am not a madman, or a pauper, or even an unreasonable person. I know that you were disappointed because I did not turn out to be the millionaire. Perhaps I deceived you about it. However, that’s over and done with. I’ll make any reasonable arrangement you like. I don’t want to stop your singing. You can live just about how you like. But you belong to me—and I want you.”
He paused for a moment, and then suddenly continued. His voice had broken. He spoke in quick nervous sentences.
“You did your best to kill me,” he said. “You might have given me a chance, anyway. I’m not such a bad sort. You know—I worship you. I have done from the first moment I saw you. I can’t rest or work or settle down to anything while things are like this between you and me. I want you. I’ve got to have you, and by God I will.”
He took a quick step forward. Anna held out her hand, and he paused. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features.
“Listen,” she said. “I have heard these things from you before, and you have had my answer. Understand once and for all that that answer is final. I do not admit the truth of a word which you have said. I will not be persecuted in this way by you.”
“You do not deny that you are my wife,” he asked hoarsely. “You cannot! Oh, you cannot.”
“I have denied it,” she answered. “Why will you not be sensible? Go back to your old life and your old friends, and forget all about Paris and this absurd delusion of yours.”
“Delusion!” he muttered, glaring at her. “Delusion!”
“You can call it what you like,” she said. “In any case you will never receive any different sort of answer from me. Stay where you are, Mr. Ennison.”