"I want you to marry Ruck--really I do," he whimpered piteously.
"Why?"
"Because"---- he swallowed something, and told what was evidently a lie, so glibly did it slip out. "Because I should be sorry to leave you to starve."
"I shall not starve. I am well educated, and can teach. At the worst I can become a nursery governess, or be a companion."
"Better marry Major Ruck."
"No. It is foolish of you to ask me."
"If you don't marry him I shall be ruined. I shall be killed. No"--he broke off suddenly--"I don't mean that. Who would kill a poor old man such as I am? But"--his voice leaped an octave--"you must marry the husband I chose for you."
"I chose for myself."
"Ah!"--the miser was shaking with rage--"it's Vivian Paslow: no denial--I can see he is the man; a penniless scoundrel, who is at my mercy!"
"Don't dare to speak of him like that," flamed out Beatrice. "As to marrying him--he has not asked me yet."