Calhoun quailed before the defiant speech. The card, upon which he had been counting, was not likely to gain the trick. He declined playing it.
He held a still stronger in his hand; which was exhibited without farther delay.
“Indeed!” he retorted, sneeringly. “Well; if I’m not master of your heart, I am of your happiness—or shall be. I know the worthless wretch that’s driven you to this denial—”
“Who?”
“How innocent you are!”
“Of that at least I am; unless by worthless wretch you mean yourself. In that sense I can understand you, sir. The description is too true to be mistaken.”
“Be it so!” he replied, turning livid with rage, though still keeping himself under a certain restraint. “Well; since you think me so worthless, it won’t, I suppose, better your opinion of me, when I tell you what I’m going to do with you?”
“Do with me! You are presumptuous, cousin Cash! You talk as if I were your protégée, or slave! I’m neither one, nor the other!”
Calhoun, cowering under the outburst of her indignation, remained silent.
“Pardieu!” she continued, “what is this threat? Tell me what you are going to do with me! I should like to know that.”