“It would have been just the same; I could never have loved you,” interrupted Lucy. “And now let us return to the house; this interview has lasted quite long enough. I am sincerely sorry if you are disappointed, Edward, but I could never give you any other answer, so please say no more about it.”
“One word more,” exclaimed Walford. “Tell me—I have a right to know—do you love any one else?”
“I really do not see that you have a right to know anything about my private affairs,” answered Lucy with some hauteur, “but in order that you may fully understand the hopelessness of your own case, I will confess that—that there is—some one else.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Walford between his set teeth, “I suspected as much. And I can form a pretty shrewd guess as to who it is, too. It is that sneaking rascal Leicester, is it not?”
“How dare you, sir, speak to me of my friends in that manner!” exclaimed Lucy, rising to her feet and stamping upon the ground in the excess of her indignation. “Go, sir, and never come near me again; I will never speak another word to you!”
“You won’t, eh?” was the sneering retort. “All right. I will go; and I’ll not come near you again. But I’ll make you bitterly repent of your treatment of me yet, or my name is not Edward Walford.”
And rising to his feet, he walked rapidly up the garden, through the house, and straight out at the front door, without so much as pausing to bid his aunt good-bye.