“Get up.”
“I won’t; go away, go away! I tell you, go away!”
He bent over her and grasped her wrists, full of a passion that made the blood rush to his face. He hurt her, and she gave a cry of pain.
“Confound it! Will you get up?” he hissed between his teeth, almost beside himself with rage, while he drew her up savagely. His flushed face, his flaming eyes, and hissing voice terrified her. Falteringly she let him pull her from the floor.
“What do you want?” she asked once more, but calmer this time, and with apparent haughtiness.
“I shall tell you what I want. I want you to go at once—at once, do you hear—to Erlevoort and ask his pardon. Perhaps you don’t remember what you have been saying in your mad passion, but you have offended him deeply, you have insulted him. Go, and at once!”
She looked at him in much alarm. His determined, commanding tones made her tremble, and she was speechless with terror as she saw him, with his big powerful form, pointing to the door.
“You will find him down-stairs in the drawing-room. Are you going now?”
She trembled all over, but she would not let him triumph.
“I won’t.”