“Better?” said Rotherby. “Come, this is rather a terrible fuss to make, isn’t it? Drink a little more!”
She drank again, and then, as he released her, bent forward over the table, hiding her face. A great shiver went through her and passed. She sat bowed and silent.
After a few seconds he spoke again, his tone quite friendly, but with that hint of mastery which made her realize how completely she was at his mercy.
“Sit up and have some supper! You will feel much better for it. Afterwards we will sit by the fire and talk.”
She raised herself slowly, propping her chin on her hands. She spoke, haltingly, with difficulty, almost as if it were in a foreign language.
“If I give my promise—to—to—to—marry—you, will you—let me—go?”
“To-night?” he said.
“Yes, to-night.” She did not look at him; she was staring before her at a picture on the opposite wall—a picture of heather-clad moors and running streams—but with eyes that saw not.
There was a brief pause, then very suddenly the man behind her moved. He bent and took her head between his hands, compelling her to face him.
“Why should I do that?” he said.