"'Tis no good your blackguarding my father, Cora," said Mark.
"Perhaps not; and 'tis no good his blackguarding me. Very different to your Uncle Vivian, I'm sure. Always a kind word and a pat on the cheek he've got; and so have your Uncle Nathan."
"Uncle Vivian can be hard enough too—as my cousin Rupert that means to marry Milly Luscombe will tell you. In fact, Rupert's going away because he won't stand his father."
"Why don't you go away then? If you were worth your salt, you'd turn your back on any man living who has treated me so badly as your father has."
"We're in for a row, it seems," answered Mark, "and I'd better begin and get a painful job over. When you've heard me, I'll hear you. In the matter of my father I'll do what a son can do—that I promise you; but there's something on my side too."
"Say it out then—the sooner the better."
She found herself heartily hating Mark and was anxious to break with him while angry; because anger would make an unpleasant task more easy.
"In a word, it's Ned Baskerville and that man over there—Waite. These rehearsals of the play—you know very well how you carry on, Cora; and you know very well 'tisn't right or seemly. You've promised to marry me, and you are my life and soul; but I can't share you with no other man. You can't flirt with Ned while you're engaged to me; you can't ask Waite to see you home of a night while you're engaged to me. You don't know what you're doing."
"Why ban't you more dashing then?" she asked. "You slink about so mean and humble. Why don't you take a part in the play, and do as other men, and talk louder and look people in the face, as if you wasn't feared to death of 'em? If you grumble, then I'll grumble too. You haven't got enough pluck for me. Ned's different, and so's t'other man, for that matter. I see how much they admire me; I know how they would go through fire and water for me."
"Not they! Master Ned—why—he can roll his eyes and roll his voice; but—there—go on! Finish what you've got to say."