She regarded him with a haughty and scared yet scornful eye. She saw now that this melo-drama was the result of wine.
'Do you think you could compel me to love you?' she asked, with a provoking smile.
'No.'
'What then?'
'To marry me.'
'Under what pressure, sir?'
'That is my secret—-in time you may find it out,' he added, bowing to her with ominous, not mock, politeness, as she passed him with a haughty stare, and left the room. 'She forgets that I have yet her photo, with her own name written on the back in her own hand; and if ever man put the screw on a woman by such a little thing as that, I shall put it on you, Olive Raymond, if you continue to play my Lady Disdain to me!'
And for a moment he cast after her retiring figure a glance of sardonic hate a devil might have emulated.
'Good-bye,' he muttered, mockingly, 'is an unpleasant thing to say; with us let it be au revoir rather; perhaps she may yet wave a damp pocket-handkerchief from the outward wall as I ride away; who knows.'
'Sorry to say time is up, my dear fellow,' said Lord Aberfeldie, entering the room with his hat and driving gloves; 'make your adieux to the ladies. There is little doubt that Allan has gone to Loganlee—the covers are first-rate there. I'll just drive over and see, dropping you and your traps at the railway station en passant.'