"You would!" commented Marrion briefly.
There was a world of scornful criticism in the words.
"Oh, dash it all," cried Marmaduke, "a man can't always ride the high horse! And you've put me in the deuce of a hole, though I suppose you meant well. You see, I can't wait for her now, as I must see Pringle tomorrow; but I can come back again," he added complacently, "and I will."
"Then you mean to--to marry--that woman?" put in Marrion.
He rose angrily and began to pace up and down the room. In sober truth once more, now that he was away from Fantine Le Grand's allurements, he had begun to wonder if he were not paying rather dearly for his two thousand pounds.
"Of course I do; it's in the bond, and I'm a man of my word. And you've no right to call her that woman. She is far better than you think, and I am very fond of her, very fond of her indeed!" He stopped opposite Marrion with a certain defiance. The blaze of the fire had died down; it was almost dark, save for a red glow on their faces. "Of course," he went on, "I ought to be deucedly angry with you, Marmie; but somehow I'm not, and if you will only take her a note from me----"
She started to her feet passionately.
"A note!" she echoed, her voice vibrating with scorn. "Oh, Duke, Duke, sometimes I wonder if you can understand?--if any man ever understands? I came here, risking all, everything for you; you've been the sun in my heaven ever since I can remember; you've always been something very bright and very far away that is not to be touched or harmed. Yes, I come here to beg you not to ruin yourself body and soul, and you ask me to take a note!"
A sudden flash of lightning from the storm, now nigh at hand, lit up the room for a second, and showed her to him standing white and rigid like some accusing angel.
"You say you're fond of her, but you're not. I tell ye you're no fond of her, Duke; ye ken na what love is--an' I do--for I love the verra ground you tread on, the verra things you've touched----"