And Julian, white to the very lips, said low and hurriedly:
“No!”
There was a long silence. With a choked, hysterical cry, Mrs. Romayne dropped into a chair near her, and covered her face with her hands. Julian drew out his pocket-handkerchief and mechanically wiped his forehead. At last he began, in a nervous, uneven voice:
“Mother, look here, I—you don’t quite understand me! I—she—it’s—it’s not the kind of girl you think!” He stopped and drew his hand desperately before his eyes. That innocent, white face, in its dingy frame, what did it want before his eyes now? How could he get on if he kept looking at it? “She—we—it was my fault! Mother, look here, I ought!”
Mrs. Romayne took her hands away from her face and clenched them together.
“You shall not,” she said in a low, steady voice.
“She—she—was an awfully good girl, don’t you know. She’s not—of course she’s not one of our sort, but—she would learn. Mother, after all, why not? Nothing else can—can make it right!”
“Nothing else can ruin you completely!” was the steady answer. “You shall never do it if I can prevent it. I have told you what I would do; think it well over. Think what it would mean to you to have not one farthing but what you can earn! To be cut by every one who knows you! To be without a chance of any kind! I told you that if you married I would disown you! Now I tell you something else! Break off this miserable connection and you shall have, as I said, anything in reason to give the girl in compensation once and for all. Refuse to do so and I will cut off your allowance until you come to your senses!”
“Mother!” he cried fiercely. “By Heaven, mother!”
“You can take your choice!” was the unmoved answer.