"I like to rise you—hang me, if I don't," said Blarden, exultingly—"you are always a snug-looking bit of goods, but when your blood's up, you're a downright beauty—rot me, but you are—why the devil don't you talk to me—eh?" he added, more roughly than he had yet spoken.
Mary Ashwoode began now to feel seriously alarmed at the man's manner, and as her eyes encountered his gloating gaze, her colour came and went in quick succession.
"Confoundedly pretty, sure enough, and well you know it, too," continued he—"curse me, but you are a fine wench—and I'll tell you what's more—I'm more than half in love with you at this minute, may the devil have me but I am."
Thus speaking, he drew his chair nearer hers.
"Mr. Blarden—sir—I insist on your leaving me," said Mary, now thoroughly frightened.
"And I insist on not leaving you," replied Blarden, with an insolent chuckle—"so it's a fair trial of strength between us, eh?—ho, ho, what are you afraid of?—stick up to your fight—do then—I like you all the better for your spirit—confound me but I do."
He advanced his chair still nearer to that on which she was seated.
"Well, but you do look pretty, by Jove," he exclaimed. "I like you, and I am determined to make you like me—I am—you shall like me."
He arose, and approached her with a half amorous, half menacing air.
Pale as death, Mary Ashwoode arose also, and moved with hurried, trembling steps towards the door. He made a movement as if to intercept her exit, but checked the impulse, and contented himself with observing with a scowl of spite and disappointment, as she passed from the room,—