“Here, hold hard!”
Marjorie Emlin stopped short, startled into silence by the furious look and tone she had evoked. The young man had listened, and from time to time had made deprecating movements to try and turn away the furious woman’s wrath till she had made this last attack, when he glared with a rage so overpowering that she shrank from him.
“You have done well,” he said. “My mother looks upon you as a daughter. I have always been to you as a brother.”
“It is not true,” she said, as she stood quivering with fear and rage before him, trying to meet his eye. Then, with a low cry, full of vindictive passion, she struck at him, and ran out of the room.
“Curse the girl!” growled Rolph. “I wish women wouldn’t be such fools. A kiss and a few warm words, and then, hang ’em! you’re expected to marry ’em. Man can’t marry every pretty girl he kisses. They want a missionary among ’em to tell ’em this isn’t Turkey. If there’s much more of it, I’m off back to Aldershot. No, I’m not,” he added, with a half laugh, “not yet—Hallo, mother! You?”
“Yes, my boy. I saw Madge go out just now, looking wild and excited. Rob, dear, you have been speaking to her?”
“Well, I suppose so,” he said bitterly.
“And you have told her you love her?—asked her to be your wife?”
“Good heavens, mother! are you gone mad too?—Madge—I never dreamed of such a thing.”
“Why?” said Mrs Rolph, with a strange coldness.