He took hold of Glynne’s arm, and shook it impatiently as he spoke, but she made no reply, only looked wistfully from Rolph to Alleyne and back.
“Take me home,” she said again.
“Yes, yes, I will; but if this scoundrel has—”
“How dare you call my brother a scoundrel?” cried Lucy, firing up. “You of all persons in the world.”
Rolph turned to her sharply, and she pointed down the path, towards the gate.
“Go!” she said; “go directly, or I shall be tempted to tell Glynne all that I could tell her. Leave our place at once.”
Rolph glared at her for a moment, but turned from her directly, as too insignificant for his notice, and once more he exclaimed,—
“I insist on knowing what this man has said to you, Glynne—”
He did not finish his sentence, but, in the brutality of his health and strength, he looked with such lofty contempt upon the man whom he was calling in his heart “grub,” “bookworm,” that as Alleyne stood there bent and silent, gazing before him, straining every nerve to maintain his composure before Glynne, the struggle seemed too hard.
How mean and contemptible he must look before her, he thought—how degraded; and as he stood there silent and determined not to resent Rolph’s greatest indignity, his teeth were pressed firmly together, and his veins gathered and knotted themselves in his brow.