"I—I would rather not," stammered she, rising and colouring; "I have played and sung enough—too much already."
"No, no, not at all," continued Blarden, warming as he proceeded; "hang me, no such thing, you were just going on strong when I came in—come, come, I won't let you stop."
Her heart swelled with indignation at the coarse, familiar insolence of his manner; but she made no other answer than that conveyed by laying down the instrument, and turning from it and him.
"Well, rot me, but this is too bad," continued he, playfully; "come, take it up again—come, you must tip us another stave, young lady—do—curse me if I heard half your songs, you're a perfect nightingale."
So saying he took up the guitar, and followed her with it towards the fireplace.
"Come, you won't refuse, eh?—I'm in earnest," he continued; "upon my soul and oath I want to hear more of it."
"I have already told you, sir," said Mary Ashwoode, "that I do not wish to play or sing any more at present. I am sure you are not aware, Mr. Blarden, that this is my private apartment; no one visits me here uninvited, and at present I wish to be alone."
Thus speaking, she resumed her seat and her work, and sat in perfect silence, her heaving breast and glowing cheeks alone betraying the strength of her emotions.
"Ho, ho! rot me, but she's sulky," cried Blarden, with a horse-laugh, while he flung the guitar carelessly upon the table; "sure you wouldn't turn me out—that would be very hard usage, and no mistake. Eh! Miss Mary?"
Mary continued to ply her silks in silence, and Blarden threw himself into a chair opposite to her.