“It is not for sale.”
“Not for sale!” he said, “when the price I’d pay for it would enable you to hold up your head in the world again?”
“Sir,” said she, filled to the quick with indignation, “I want neither your gold, sarcasm, advice nor presence.”
“A little of each would do you good.”
“You are a coward, sir,” the woman flashed out, “to say things to me here that you would not have dared to utter when wealth, power, position, all were mine.”
“No, dear lady, not a coward, but one who enjoys telling the truth, even if it bites and wounds. Will you sell that piece of stone to me?”
“Not for the wealth of Vanderbilt,” she replied. “I’d rather give it to a pauper whom I respected, than to sell it to you for enough to buy the golden opinion of all men.”
“Such a resolve shows delicate sensibility, artistic temperament, but a minimum of common sense. I saw your—” (here even he could go but little further) “I mean Mr. Nugent, a few days ago, and if you still possess your romantic attachment for him, his pinched cheeks and sunken eyes, would induce you to make some little sacrifice for him.”
The interview was becoming beyond endurance to Ouida, when, fortunately, the subject of the latter part of Doane’s talk—Horatio Nugent—entered the room. He had heard the editor’s allusion to sacrifice.