“Please, please, don’t say any more, Mr. Ormsby. I knew that you liked me, but—oh, I am so sorry! I can never be anything to you—never—never—never!”
“Dora”—he caught her sharply, roughly by the arm—“you don’t know what you are saying. Perhaps, I’ve startled you. Listen, Dora. I am asking you to marry me. I have cared for you ever since the first moment I saw you, and I always wanted to make you my wife. You are everything in the world to me.”
“Mr. Ormsby, please, don’t say any more. What you ask is impossible, quite impossible—I do not care for you; I can never care for you—in that way.”
He uttered an exclamation of bitter annoyance.
“Then, it is as I thought. You have given your love to young Dick Swinton. But you’ll never marry him. I may not be able to win you, but I can spoil 105 his chances—yes, spoil them, and I will, by God! Shall I tell you what sort of a man you have chosen for your lover?—a thief, a common thief, a man who will be wanted by the police, who will go into the hands of the police at my will and pleasure.”
“That is a falsehood—a deliberate lie!” cried Dora. “You would not dare to say such a thing if Dick were in New York. It’s only cowards who take advantage of the absent. I know of the quarrel you had with Dick at the dinner—I heard all about it. I’m glad he struck you. If he could know what you have just said, he would thrash you—as a liar deserves to be thrashed.”
“Gently, young lady, gently,” replied Ormsby, quietly, yet his face livid with passion. “You are foolish to take up this tone with me. I hold the whip, and, thanks to you, I intend to let Dick Swinton feel it.” Then, with swift change of voice, from which all anger had vanished, he continued: “Forgive me, forgive me! I should not speak to you like this, but—really that fellow is not worthy of you. His own grandfather disowns him.”
“But I don’t,” cried Dora, angrier than before.
“You will change presently.”
“Never!”