"It never will be over," she broke in passionately. "It is for all my life! Ah, what am I saying? Mr. Wingarde"—she turned towards him, her face quivering painfully—"be patient with me! I have given my promise."
The smile on his face deepened into something that closely resembled a sneer.
"How long do you want me to wait?" he said. "Fifty years?"
She drew back sharply. But almost instantly he went on speaking.
"I will yield a point," he said, "if it means so much to you. But, you know, the wedding-day will dawn eventually, however remote we make it. Will you say next month?"
The girl's eyes wore a hunted look, but she kept them raised with desperate resolution. She did not answer him, however. After a moment he repeated his question. His face had become stern. The lines about his mouth were grimly resolute.
"Will you say next month, Nina?" he said. "It shall be the last day of it if you wish. But—next month."
His tone was inexorable. He meant to win this point, and she knew it.
Her breath came quickly, unevenly; but in face of his mastery she made a great effort to control her agitation.
"Very well," she said, and she spoke more steadily than she had spoken at all during the interview. "I will marry you next month."