“There is your ice, Ouida,” said Paul, striving to control himself. “Would that my heart were like it, so that you might devour it. I do not like that man.”
“Why, Paul?”
“He comes too often to you. Nay, do not deny it. He loves you, but you do not love him,” he fiercely said.
“I—I—” hesitated Ouida, for a moment losing her self-possession, under the influence of Paul’s questioning.
“But you do not love him,” he repeated again, as he seized her arm, almost roughly. “If I thought you did—well, you know the blood of the Cossack is in me, and—”
“You will kill him?” she passionately uttered, and she clung to Paul as though holding him from the accomplishment of such a purpose.
“Now, by my life,” he said, looking searchingly at her, “this sudden interest almost makes me think you do care for him.”
Again her complete mastery over his simple nature exhibited itself.
“Paul,” she said, in that alluring tone which always brought him to his knees, “you are beside yourself. You have naught to fear of me with him. He has just promised me to marry us tomorrow night.”
“So you have fixed the time at last,” said Paul, exultingly. “This is noble, oh, so good of you. This joyous news compensates me for a world of agony and doubt. Would to God tomorrow night were here,” said he, completely satisfied. “Come, let us to the ball room. I heard your editorial friend, Doane, swearing a moment ago that you had promised to waltz with him, but that you had secreted yourself to escape his clutches.”