“Didn’t you?” he said, looking at her with a cunning smile. “How easily you people can lie. You did mean it, and you made me a promise, and you’re going to keep it.”
“No, no,” she cried wildly.
“You are,” he said, “and I’m going to be paid. I’m only waiting for my chance.”
“I tell you no,” cried Marjorie. “I did not mean it.”
“You meant it then, and you mean it now, and I’m going to keep my word when I can. I’m not a fool. Do you think I don’t know why it all is? Not so blind as all that, my dear. It’s plucky of you, and I like you the better for it, and some day you’ll tell me how glad you are that—pst! someone coming,” he whispered, completely altering his manner and tone bowing obsequiously, and whining out an appeal to the dear kind lady to bestow a trifle on a poor young man out of work.
That night Marjorie lay awake thinking, half-repentant, half-glad; the latter feeling increasing till there was a glow of triumph in her eyes as she seemed to be gazing down upon Glynne, cast off by her cousin, her enemy and rival no longer, but an unhappy despairing object humbled at her feet.