A savagery which, though generally concealed, was never far from the surface, now broke out in him, making the muscles of his face tense and his voice metallic. "Get to your room," he said fiercely, "get to your room. I've wasted time enough on you and your brat of a brother, and now a Western lout is to spoil what I've done? I've a mind to wash my hands of all of you—and sink you. Get to your room, and stay there, while I make up my mind which of the two I shall do."
She went, cringing like one beaten, to the door, and he followed her, trembling with rage.
"Or have you a choice?" he asked. "Brother or lover, which shall it be?"
She turned and stretched out her hands to him, unable to speak; but the man of the sneer struck down her arms and laughed in her face. In mute terror she fled to her room.
Chapter Seventeen
Old Scars
In his room Bill Gregg was striding up and down, throwing his hands toward the ceiling. Now and then he paused to slap Ronicky Doone on the back.
"It's fate, Ronicky," he said, over and over again. "Thinking of waking up and finding the girl that you've loved and lost standing waiting for you! It's the dead come to life. I'm the happiest man in the world. Ronicky, old boy, one of these days I'll be able—" He paused, stopped by the solemnity of Doone's face. "What's wrong, Ronicky?"
"I don't know," said the other gloomily. He rubbed his arms slowly, as if to bring back the circulation to numbed limbs.
"You act like you're sick, Ronicky."