He crushed Leonie's hand as he looked straight into her eyes, so desperate and ashamed, and spoke very gently and deliberately as he slipped his hand to her wrist and pulled her a little closer.
"I shall be in the last cove to-morrow at eleven, waiting for you."
And naturally Leonie had responded to the mastery in the voice, as all women do respond when the voice is the right one; and a soft wave of colour swept from chin to brow as she turned from the gate, and walked through the doorway straight to her bedroom; while her future lord pranced furiously among the bric-a-brac, and her aunt's beads and bracelets clashed against the china as she wrung her hands over the tea things, and portending disaster.
Leonie sat down on her bed with her eyes shining like stars.
The lid of her life's casket had opened wide, and from under a hideous heap of fear, disgust, lost illusions, and despair, hope had sprung, spreading her iridescent wings in the warmth of love.
She sat until the shadows crept about her, then got up from her bed with a little laugh, and descended to give battle for her life and freedom.
Think of every synonym connected with the word tumult and you will get a vague idea of the storm which crashed about the girl's defenceless head as she stood with her back to the door of the tiny sitting-room, with a perfectly gorgeous diamond ring sparkling and flashing in front of her upon a table.
"I cannot marry you, Sir Walter, I simply cannot do it," she was saying, slowly and distinctly. "You must let me go. So please give the ring to somebody else, there are heaps of girls ever—oh, ever so much nicer than me!"
She smiled sweetly as she picked up the ring and held it out to the man, who snatched it from her as he sprang to his feet, and hurled it through the window.
Then he moved to the other side of the table and leant both clenched fists upon it as he looked Leonie up and down.