“Here is a pretty pickle!” groaned the young man to himself, in a sort of consternation at the situation, his generous heart touched by her display of emotion, for her beauty and her sorrow were very striking, almost theatrical.
But he pulled himself together, and said gently, with an abashed air in his self-reproach:
“Don’t say another word, please, Rosalind; you are only making matters worse. It is too late!”
“Too late!” she almost shrieked, and he answered seriously:
“Yes, forever, too late. I’ve proposed to the other girl, and have been accepted.”
A cry of rage burst from Rosalind’s lips, and her blue eyes blazed with the fire of jealous hate.
She sat erect suddenly and shook her small, jeweled fist close to his face.
“Coward! Traitor! You have turned my love to hate, and you shall pay dear for the slight you have put upon me!”
“Do you threaten me with a suit for breach of promise?” he demanded laughingly.
“Worse than that, far worse!” she answered fiercely, adding: “I know who my secret rival is already—that miserable little actress that used to be Berry Vining, and I will have my revenge on you both! Now go!”