Miriam, with her hands loosely clasped on her black dress, looked, in her turn, without flinching, at this man who considered himself her master. His eyes—wicked as they were—fell before that clear resolute gaze.
"Well, what is it?" he asked roughly, and threw himself into a chair.
Still standing, Miriam replied to this question quietly and with curtness.
"I wish to go away."
"Indeed! You wish to go away—why?"
"Because I am not happy here, and I am doing no good."
"Indeed, I think you are doing a great deal of good," replied Barton, with a gentleness far from common with him. "You are making a man of Dicky. You have rescued him from the influence of his foolish mother. Come, Miriam, let us sit down and talk this over."
"I am fond of Dicky," said Miriam, taking a seat; "he is a good child and very lovable. If it were only Dicky I should not mind. But his mother is jealous of me. She hates me; so does that Marsh girl. They would do me an injury if they could. Besides," added she, looking very earnestly at Barton, "I do not quite understand you—why did you rescue me in London, and bring me down here?"
Barton rose, and began to pace to and fro. He prefaced his speech with his customary chuckle.
"Oh, it was no philanthropy, believe me," he said. "If you had been a plain woman, you might have gone your way. I told you that before. As it was, I saw that you were not—in fact, not only were you a beautiful woman, which was necessary to my plans, but you were a good one into the bargain. I knew that, notwithstanding your somewhat equivocal position when we met on Waterloo Bridge. So I brought you here. You know why."