“When I have said all that I have to say to her, Mrs. Garrison, I'll bring her back to you.”
Neither he nor Dorothy uttered a word until they stood before each other in the dark palm-surrounded nook where, on one memorable night, he had felt the first savage blow of the enemy.
“Dorothy, there can no longer be any dissembling. I love you. You have doubtless known it for weeks and weeks. It will avail you nothing to deny that you love me. I have seen—” he was charging, hastily, feverishly.
“I do deny it. How dare you make such an assertion?” she cried, hotly.
“I said it would avail you nothing to deny it, but I expected the denial. You have not forgotten those dear days when we were boy and girl. We both thought they had gone from us forever, but we were mistaken. To-day I love you as a man loves, only as a man can love who has but one woman in his world. Sit here beside me, Dorothy.”
“I will not!” she exclaimed, trembling in every fiber, but he gently, firmly took her arm and drew her to the wicker bench. “I hate you, Philip Quentin!” she half sobbed, the powerlessness to resist infuriating her beyond expression.
“Forget that I was rough or harsh, dear. Sit still,” he cried, as at the word of endearment she attempted to rise.
“You forget yourself! You forget—” was all she could say.
“Why did you refuse to see me this afternoon?” he asked, heedlessly.
“Because I believed you to be what I now know you are,” she said, turning on him quickly, a look of scorn in her eyes.