“I came to discuss money with you, not—not impossibilities.”
“So—so that is it, is it? I am impossible, am I?”
“To me—utterly. I have only one feeling for you, the deepest scorn. I don’t hate you, because you are too mean, too paltry, too low a thing to hate. I have only contempt for you.”
He writhed under the cold and cutting scorn of her words and her voice, the evil temper in him worked uppermost.
“So—so that’s the talk, is it?” he cried with a foul oath. “That’s it, is it? You—you two-penny ha’penny—” He choked foolishly over his words.
“You!” he gasped, “what are you? What have you been? What about you and—”
Again he was silent, writhing with rage.
“Money—yes, it is money-talk, then, and by thunder I’ll make you pay! I’ll bleed you white, you cursed—” Again more foolish oaths, the clumsy cursing of a man in the grip of passion.
“You shall pay! It’s money-talk, yes—you shall pay! We will talk in thousands, my girl. I said five thousand. It isn’t enough—what is your good name worth, eh? What is it worth to you? I could paint you a nice colour, couldn’t I? What will this fellow Everard say when I tell him what I can tell him? How the village fools will talk it over in their alehouse, eh? And in the cottages, how they will stare at Miss Meredyth of Starden when she takes her walks abroad. They’ll wink at one another, won’t they. They’ll remember! Trust ’em, they’ll never forget!”
She felt sickened, faint, and horrified, yet she gave no sign.