“Hah!” he ejaculated with a long expiration of the breath; and his great hand closed and prisoned the little one laid therein. “You told me just now that I was not decided and prompt enough.”
“Yes, I did. But you are holding my hand very tightly, Mr Trevithick.”
“Yes,” he said quietly, “I am. That is because you are wrong. I am very decided and prompt sometimes, and I am going to be now. Mary Dillon, will you be my wife?”
“What!” she cried, flushing scarlet, and struggling to release her hand, as her eyes flashed and seemed to be reading him through and through. “Absurd!”
“No—no,” he said gravely; “don’t say that, even if my way and manner are absurd.”
“I did not mean that,” she cried quickly. “I meant to—Oh, it is absurd!” she said again, though her heart was throbbing violently, and she struggled vainly to withdraw her hand. “Look at me—weak, misshapen, pitiful. Mr Trevithick, you are mad.”
“Don’t try to take your hand away,” he said slowly; it makes me afraid of hurting you; and don’t speak again like that—you hurt me very—very much.
“But, Mr Trevithick! It is too dreadful. I cannot—I must not listen to you.”
“Why? You are quite free; and you are not an heiress.”
“I!” she cried bitterly. “No; I have nothing but a pitiful few hundred pounds. Now you know the truth. Do you hear me? I am a pauper, dependent on my cousin’s charity.”