Myra had been sitting perfectly upright, looking as if suffering from some cataleptic seizure; but at the mention of Stratton she turned and laid her hand upon her father’s arm.
“Oh, yes, of course!” he raged, with a mocking laugh. “Womanlike; a hundred excuses ready for him: cut himself in shaving—wedding clothes not home in time—sprained his ankle—a bad headache. Oh, you women, you women! If ever there were a pack of fools—”
“Father!”
That one word only, but full of so much agony that he turned and caught her to his breast.
“Brute! Senseless brute!” he literally growled. “Thinking of myself, of my own feelings, and not of you, my own.”
Then raging again, with his countenance purple, and the veins of his temples starting:
“But you! To insult you, my child, and after that other horrible affair. How a man—who professed to worship you—could subject you to such an outrage—to such infamy! I tell you it is maddening.”
“Father!” once more in a piteous tone.
“No; you shall not plead for him, my darling. You have behaved nobly. Like a true, self-respecting English lady. No acting, no silly girlish fainting, but like my daughter. You must go on, though. This scoundrel must be shown that he cannot insult you with impunity.”
“Listen, father,” she whispered after a desperate effort to restrain the hysterical burst of agony striving for exit.