With a slight recoil, a glance of soft detestation veiled and yet visible, Warwick answered like a satiric echo—
"Only a month betrothed, and yet so fond and jealous, Ottila!"
Unchilled by the action, undaunted by the look, the white arm took him captive, the beautiful face drew nearer, and the persuasive voice asked wistfully—
"Was it of me you thought when you turned with that longing in your eye?"
"No."
"Was it of a fairer or a dearer friend than I?"
"Yes."
The black brows contracted ominously, the mouth grew hard, the eyes glittered, the arm became a closer bond, the entreaty a command.
"Let me know the name, Adam."
"Self-respect."