“Hurt me? How, Monica?”
“Oh, I don’t know; but he has spoken such cruel, wicked words. He said he had vowed to ruin our happiness—he looked as if he meant it—so vindictive, so terrible!” she shivered a little.
He took her hands, and held them in his warm, strong clasp.
“Are you afraid of what that bad man says, Monica—a man who is a coward and a scoundrel of the deepest dye? Are you afraid of idle threats from his lips? How could he ruin our happiness now?”
She looked up at him, still with a sort of undefined trouble in her eyes.
“He might hurt you, Randolph,” she half whispered. “What hurts you, hurts me. If—if—he were to take you away from me——”
Randolph laid his hand smilingly upon her lips.
“My darling, you are unnerved by the fright he gave you. When was Monica troubled by idle fears before?”
“I don’t know what I fear, Randolph; but I have feelings sometimes—premonitions, presentiments, and I cannot shake them off. Ever since Conrad came, I felt a kind of horror of him, even though I tried to call him friend. Sometimes I think it must mean something.”
“No doubt it does,” answered Randolph. “It is the natural shrinking of your pure soul from his evil, vicious nature. I can well understand it. It could hardly be otherwise. He could not deceive you long.”