Again she seemed struggling to recover herself, and to recall some thought; then she looked up and asked abruptly:
"Conny, have you promised to marry my—Frank Lamotte?"
"No, Sybil."
"Then—promise, promise me, Constance, as if I were on my dying bed, that you never will."
"Why, Sybil, dear?"
"Don't ask for reasons, don't; promise, promise, PROMISE!"
She was growing excited, and Constance hastened to say:
"You are laboring under some delusion, dear child; Frank has not offered himself to me."
"But he will! he will! and I tell you, Constance, it would be giving yourself to a fate like mine, and worse. The Lamottes have not done with disgrace yet, and it shall not fall on you; promise me, Con."
"I promise, Sybil."