"Now!" echoed Moya. "What do you mean by now?"
"Why, the whole thing's off, of course."
"What whole thing?"
"Your late engagement."
"Oh, is it! Thanks for the news; it's the first I've heard of it."
"Then it won't be the last. You're not going to marry a convict's son, or a convict either; and this fellow promises to be both."
"I shall marry exactly whom I like," said Moya, trembling.
"Don't flatter yourself! You may say so out of bravado, but you're the last person to make a public spectacle of yourself; especially when—well, you know, to put it brutally, this is pretty well bound to ruin him, whatever else it does or does not. Besides, you don't like him any more; you've stopped even thinking you do. Do you suppose I've got no eyes?"
"Theodore," said Moya in a low voice, "if I were your wife I'd murder you!"
"Oh, no, you wouldn't; and meanwhile don't talk greater rot than you can help, Moya. Believe me it isn't either the time or the place. We must get out of the place, by the way, the first thing to-morrow. I see you're still wearing his ring. The sooner you take that off and give it to me to return to him the better."