Madge started from her knees, and took two steps across the room to catch him by the arm.
“What? What is that you said?”
“That there is no such thing as true and honest love upon the face of this wretched earth,” he cried. “It is a puzzle and a muddle. For a wretched error I am thrown overhand—”
“Speak what you said before,” she said, wildly; “tell me what you said.”
“I said that Rhoda Penwynn is about to marry John Tregenna, or John Tregenna is about to marry Rhoda Penwynn, which you like,” he said, almost brutally.
“Is—this true?” she said, hoarsely.
“Yes,” he cried, with the veins standing out in his forehead, as, in spite of the calm, cynical way in which he had schooled himself to bear all this, the passion burning at his heart would have vent. “Honesty, integrity, and virtue are to have their reward; long-suffering patience is to win the day; so I say to you again, Madge, you and I had better wed.”
“Go—go and leave me,” said Madge, hoarsely. “Mr Trethick—I want to be alone.”
Her looks brought Geoffrey back to his senses, and the ebullition of the passion was over.
“No: you are ill. Sit down there. Here, let me get you water—spirit—something, Madge. My poor girl, I have given you terrible pain by my mad words.”