“Indeed, no, Mr Richard,” cried Daisy, who, in her horror, caught at his arm, and tried to drag him away. “Mr Richard, sir, you told me you loved me; and in those days I was foolish enough to believe you, to the neglect of a good, true man, who wanted to make me his wife.”
“Poor idiot!” cried Richard, who was getting out of temper at being so kept at a distance.
“No; but a good, true man,” cried Daisy, indignantly. “I’ve wakened up from the silly dream you taught me to believe, and now I come to warn you of a great danger, and you scoff at it.”
“What’s the danger, little one?”
“I cannot—dare not tell you.”
“Then it isn’t true. It’s an excuse of yours. The old game, Daisy: all promises and love in your letters—all coyness and distance when we meet; but you are not going to fool me any more, my darling. I don’t believe a word of your plot, for no one knows I am here except those who would not betray me.”
“What shall I do?” cried Daisy, clasping her hands in agony. “Even now it may be too late.”
“What shall you do, you silly little thing!” cried Richard, whose promises were all forgotten, and he clasped Daisy more tightly; “why, behave like a sensible girl. Why, Daisy, I have not kissed you for weeks, and so must make up for lost time.”
“If you do not loose me, Mr Richard, I shall scream for help,” cried the girl, now growing frightened.
“And who’s to hear you if you do?” he said, mockingly.