“Mr. Hungerford, will you stand aside? I can not talk with you to-night, or listen. I am going to my room.”
The tone in which this was uttered should have been a warning, but Cousin Percy was in no condition to recognize warnings, or to heed them if he had. His smile grew more tender and his tone more intimate.
“Not yet,” he smiled; “not just yet. I can't permit it. Gertie, I—”
“If you don't stand aside I shall call my father.”
“What? Call the old gentleman? No, you don't mean it. Of course you don't. You wouldn't be so unreasonable. Come, come! we're friends at least. We understand each other, don't we?”
“I understand YOU, thoroughly.”
“Of course you do,” with a triumphant leer. “And you know what I am going to say. Ah ha! I was sure you did. And you've confessed. Gertie, my dearest girl, I—What! Going? Not until you pay toll. I'm keeper of the gate and you must pay before you pass, you know. If you won't listen you must pay. Ha! ha!”
He held out his hands. Gertrude shrank back. She was not afraid of him, but she did fear a scene. She had threatened to call her father, but she could not do that. If she did her mother would be frightened. She moved away, to the other side of the library table.
Cousin Percy interpreted her retreat as a sign of surrender. He followed her, laughing.
“Come!” he insisted. “I knew you didn't mean it. Come, my dear! Just one. I—”