But before he reached the door the capricious creature had sprung from her seat and flashed beside him.
“Dick, my Dick, I am a fool—oh, such a fool!” she cried. “But the truth is that I am too fond of you, my beloved boy! Now, don’t go, Dick—or go if you please to go—you may do what you please; I will not think anything of it. Oh, if you could only give me a little of your love! Must she have all—all—all?”
“Do not be foolish, my dear,” said he. “And you know as well as I do that ’tis foolish to be jealous. Ah, you know that I am true to you. I need not protest to you of my truth.”
She looked at him steadfastly once more; and now there was no scorn in her look—only a nervous anxiety.
“I think,” said she, “that you are true to me, and that you detest yourself on that account; because to be true to me involves your being false to Betsy Linley. Oh, this constancy according to compact is no virtue. Honesty is no virtue on the part of a man who is cast on a desert island. But you will come with me to-morrow, Dick—my Dick?”
“Indeed, it is impossible,” he replied. “I will leave you now. Think over the matter till to-morrow, and you will agree with me, I am convinced.”
With an exclamation of impatience she went back to her sofa, wheeled it suddenly round, and then seated herself in it with her back turned to him.
He went behind her with a laugh.
“Good-bye, you beautiful, petulant, typical woman,” he said. “Good-bye, I will come to you to-morrow, when I am sure you will be polite enough to turn your face to me.”
She gave a pout and a shrug and picked up the newspaper which she had been pretending to read at his entrance. She pretended to read it again.