"Never mind. If I can't convince you without blackguarding him, I'll let you go. I only ask you to trust me, and believe that I am doing my best—for you." Clayton paused doubtfully. "If you hate to eat dinner alone," he added suddenly, as an afterthought, "so do I. Martha, come with me."
"But I promised Mr. Gordon. He's waiting."
"But remember, you have a contract with me."
"Yes," replied Martha, half angrily. "With a friend. Not a jailer. Good-night."
Martha started toward the door, but Clayton raised his hand and she hesitated, as he blocked the way.
"Well?" she demanded defiantly.
"You can choose between him and me," declared Clayton, hotly. "But you've got to choose. If you go with him, breaking your contract, I wash my hands of the whole business. Now, choose."
Martha met his gaze squarely, half angrily, half contemptuously. Then she turned to the waiting maid.
"Lizzie," she said, clearly and distinctly, "ask Mr. Gordon—" Yet, even as she spoke her voice faltered, she looked at Clayton, and added, dropping her eyes, in an almost inaudible undertone: "—to excuse me."