“Then she has misrepresented you?” he cried, taking several steps toward her.
“I did not say that she had.”
“Dorothy, what do you mean by this? What right have you to—” he began, fiercely.
“Mr. Quentin!” exclaimed Mrs. Garrison, haughtily.
“Well,” cried he, at bay and doggedly, “I must know the truth. Will you come to the veranda with me, Dorothy?”
“No,” she replied, without a quaver.
“I must talk with you alone. What I have to say is of the gravest importance. It is for your welfare, and I shall leave my own feelings out of it, if you like. But I must and will say what I came here to say.”
“There is nothing that I care to hear from you.”
“By all that's holy, you shall hear it, and alone, too,” he exclaimed so commandingly that both women started. He caught a quick flutter in Dorothy's eyes and saw the impulse that moved her lips almost to the point of parting. “I demand—yes, demand—to be heard! Come! Dorothy, for God's sake, come!”
He was at her side and, before she could prevent it, had grasped her hand in his own. All resistance was swept away like chaff before the whirlwind. The elder woman so far forgot her cold reserve as to blink her austere eyes, while Dorothy caught her breath, looked startled and suffered herself to be led to the door without a word of protest. There he paused and turned to Mrs. Garrison, whose thunderstruck countenance was afterward the subject of more or less amusement to him, and, if the truth were known, to her daughter.