“Don’t talk trash!” exclaimed Corrie, lowering upon her. “Ye’ll give him ‘ay’ to-night or it’ll be the worse for ye. Don’t you try to cross me, ye daughter o’ a beggar!”
“John!” squealed his sister.
Kitty was on her feet, her beautiful eyes blazing from her white face. “How dare you?” she cried, shaking with furious indignation, “how dare you speak so of my father, a man with a great, noble mind?—you, you miserable thing, with not an idea in your head, not a thought in your heart, but money, money, money! My father owes you nothing—nothing, do you hear? His daughter has earned every penny she has cost you.”
John Corrie, unused to contradiction, much less to retaliation, rose, grey of countenance, shaking with passion. Probably he was not aware that he had the bread knife in his hand, but his sister grabbed his wrist.
“Listen to me,” he began in a thick voice.
“I won’t! You are not sane,” said Kitty, “or you would never have spoken such words about my father, your own sister’s husband—not that I’ll ever forgive them or you. But you are mad—mad with greed! I tell you, once and for all, I’m not for sale to Mr. Symington!”
He sat down with a crash, his mouth gaping.
“Go, go!” whispered Miss Corrie, motioning frantically with her free hand. “It’s eight o’clock—time the office was open.”
Kitty turned and went. She was glad to go, for her courage was already burned out.
Miss Corrie shook her brother. “Ye fool, ye forsaken fool!” she sputtered. “That temper o’ yours has ruined everything. Ye’ll never get her to marry him now.”