"My darling, can you guess what I am going to ask you this morning?" he ventured.
She looked at him with a crimsoning face and flashing eyes.
"I wish you would not call me names, Mr. Revington," she said, with petulant dignity.
"Names!" he echoed, blankly.
"Yes," she replied, loftily. "Darling, and all such names as belong to the jargon of love, I heartily despise, and I must beg you to spare me their infliction."
"But you have promised to marry me, Irene," he expostulated.
"I have not promised to love you, though," she retorted with spirit. "Please remember that, Mr. Revington, and spare me your love-sick phrases!"
He stared at her, angered and abashed. Her purple-blue eyes sparkled with scorn, her sweet, red lips were curled disdainfully. He kept down his bitter anger with an effort, remembering the boon he wished to crave.
"Do not forget that our compact was a mere matter of the bargain and sale of the secret you held," Irene continued, bitterly. "You drove me into it by your threats of disgracing me in the eyes of the world. Let us keep to the letter of our bargain. You will never have any terms of endearment from me, and I expect and desire none from you. On such terms they are simply revolting."
"As you will," he retorted, in sullen wrath. "But I cannot see what you expect to gain by your stand-off and let-alone policy. I shall be your husband all the same, and instead of having me for your devoted slave, you will make me a tyrannical master."