His sneer roused her spirit, and she spoke in a low tone, striving to control the tremors of her voice.
"I will not cry off: no," she added, emphasizing her words, as if to fix his attention, "not if it should end in my death."
Ivar started and glanced suspiciously at her.
Suddenly Lorelie rose, and walking to an oak-press produced a small piece of faded black velvet fringed on one edge with silver lace. Sitting down with needle and thread she proceeded with deft fingers to manipulate this velvet into a sort of ornamental bow, without cutting the fabric or in any way diminishing its original size.
Her husband moodily watched her, wondering why she should form a dress-ornament from such faded stuff and why she should select this particular juncture for making it.
"What's that thing you are making?" he asked in a sullen voice.
"Merely a bow," she answered, extending the half-finished article towards him. "Of what do you suppose this velvet once formed part?"
"It might have been cut from a pall by the look of it."
"I commend your discernment. You are not far wrong."
"Perhaps you will enlighten me," he asked, scowling, as he noticed her air of satisfaction at his perplexity.