“No,” he repeated in accents of blandishment; “out of all the world the person set up for your love and adoration is Flora Colonibel. Now in hating Miss Delavigne, and in showing that you hate her, are you doing Flora Colonibel good service?”
He would not proceed till she answered him, so at last she vouchsafed him a sulky, “No.”
“You’re working right against Flora Colonibel,” he said. “You’re blasting her prospects for worldly advancement; you’re preparing her for an old age spent in a garret.”
Mrs. Colonibel shivered at the prospect held out before her, but said nothing.
“What’s your income apart from what Stanton gives you?” he asked.
“Five hundred dollars a year,” reluctantly.
“Five hundred to a woman of your expensive tastes! How much was that embroidered toga you have on?”
“Thirty dollars.”
“And your sandals, or whatever they are?”
“Three.”