“I thought the old rascal did it,” he said. “A well-planned bit of work, though.”
THROUGH THE GATE OF HORN
The young man’s face was pale. His jaw, hard-set in a grip of self-control, lent his clever, handsome features a suggestion of force remarkable for his twenty-two years. At maturity, his intellect, backed by so much character, would be formidable. He turned to the window, stared out of it for a long moment. Then he switched round upon the girl.
“So that’s your last word, Betty?—Finish?”
Her eyes dropped under his, were raised again in a volition which dared to match itself, though she was tremulous with the effort, against the challenge of his voice. Their blue depths were charmingly sincere.
“I cannot help myself, Jack.” She shook her head pathetically. “You ought to understand.”
His voice came grimly, with intent to wound.
“You are selling yourself to James Arrowsmith. Yes, I understand.”