“And in that letter he asked you to be his wife?” Mr. Thornton went on in the same hard, dry tone, as if it were nothing to him that he was cruelly torturing the young girl at his side. “He asked you to be his wife, I say. May I, as his father, know what answer you intend to give?”
The answer was in Mildred’s tears, which now gushed forth plenteously. Assuming a gentler tone, Mr. Thornton continued:
“Miss Howell, it must not be. I have other wishes for my son, and unless he obeys them, I am a ruined man. I do not blame you as much as Lawrence, for you do not know everything as he does.”
“Why not go to him, then? Why need you come here to trouble me?” cried Mildred, burying her face in the cushions of the sofa.
“Because,” answered Mr. Thornton, “it would be useless to go to him. He is infatuated,—blinded as it were, to his own interest. He thinks he loves you, Miss Howell, but he will get over that and wonder at his fancies.”
Mildred’s crying ceased at this point, and not the slightest agitation was visible, while Mr. Thornton continued:
“Lilian Veille has long been intended for my son. She knew it. He knew it. You knew it, and I leave you to judge whether under these circumstances it was right for you to encourage him.”
Mildred sat bolt upright now, and in the face turned toward her tormentor there was that which made him quail for an instant, but soon recovering his composure he went on.
“He never had a thought of doing otherwise than marrying Lilian until quite recently, even though he may say to the contrary. I have talked with him. I know, and it astonished me greatly to hear from Geraldine that he had been coaxed into——”
“Stop!” and like a young lioness Mildred sprang to her feet, her beautiful face pale with anger, which flashed like sparks of fire from her dark eyes.