"Oh, no," she said, alarm in her voice.
He laughed.
"You've never been afraid of me before, why are you now, Pansy? Are you afraid you might love me?"
"How could I love anyone so depraved?" she asked.
But her voice was quavering, not scornful as she intended it to be.
"Depraved! So that's what I am now, is it? Well, it's all point of view, I suppose. And it's one degree better than saying you hate me."
He turned towards the desk, and drew out paper and envelopes.
"Write your letter, my little girl," he finished.
Pansy sat down.
As she wrote to her father, in her heart was a wish that she had been left undisturbed in her fool's paradise, that she had married Raoul Le Breton at the end of a month, knowing nothing about him except that she loved him.