"Mr. Stanford, do you mean to insult me?" demanded Rose furiously. "Let me go this instant. Fetch me back to the rest. Oh, if papa were here, you wouldn't dare to talk to me like that. Reginald Stanford, let me go. I hate you!"
For Mr. Stanford had put his arm around her waist, and was looking down at her with those darkly daring eyes. What could Rose do?—silly, love-sick Rose. She didn't hate him, and she broke out into a perfect passion of sobs.
"Sit down, Rose," he said, very gently, leading her to a mossy knoll under a tree; "and, my darling, don't cry. You will redden your eyes, and swell your nose, and won't look pretty. Don't cry any more!"
If Mr. Stanford had been trying for a week, he could have used no more convincing argument.
Rose wiped her eyes gracefully; but wouldn't look at him.
"That's a good girl!" said Stanford. "I will agree to everything rather than offend you. You love M. La Touche, and you hate me. Will that do?"
"Let us go back," said Rose, stiffly, getting up. "I don't see what you mean by such talk. I know it is wrong and insulting."
"Do you feel insulted?" he asked, smiling down at her.
"Let me alone!" cried Rose, the passionate tears starting to her eyes again. "Let me alone, I tell you! You have no business to torment me like this!"
He caught her suddenly in his arms, and kissed her again and again.