"I hate you!" she said between her set teeth. "You are mean! Mean! I hate you!"
He stood quite still, gravely irresponsive.
"You have deceived me—cheated me!" she went on, angrily and recklessly. "You made me think you wanted to marry me."
The corners of his mouth went up under his ashen-grey moustache in a chill smile.
"Pardon me!" he interrupted. "But did I make you think? or did you think it of your own accord?"
She plucked at her fan nervously.
"Any girl—I don't care who she is—would accept you if you asked her to marry you!" she said hotly. "It would be perfectly idiotic to refuse such a rich man, even if he were Methusaleh himself. There's nothing wrong or dishonest in taking the chance of having plenty of money, if it is offered."
He looked at her, vaguely compassionating her loss of self-control.
"No, there is nothing wrong or dishonest in taking the chance of having plenty of money, if such a chance can be had without shame and dishonour," he said. "But I, personally, should consider a woman hopelessly lost to every sense of self-respect, if at the age of twenty-one she consented to marry a man of seventy for the sake of his wealth. And I should equally consider the man of seventy a disgrace to the name of manhood if he condoned the voluntary sale of such a woman by becoming her purchaser."
She lifted her head with a haughty air.