“Yes, the governor. You don’t mind him, do you, Thea? He will come round all right, I know. You do like me, don’t you? You will have me? I love you so madly—have loved you ever since the first time I saw you.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” cried Thea.
She pulled away her hands when he tried to clasp them, and tears came into her blue eyes.
“Sorry about the governor? Oh, that doesn’t matter, Thea. He will certainly come round, I tell you!” the young man cried, feverishly, eagerly.
“Oh, I don’t mean him—it’s you!” she cried, tearfully. “I’m so sorry you love me. Like that, too, to run such risks for my sake—poverty and—everything. And I can’t have you, you know. I’m engaged to Mr. de Vere.”
He recoiled as if she had struck him; his dark eyes caught a haggard, hunted look.
“You are jesting!” he cried.
“I am not. I am going to marry Mr. de Vere,” she said, proudly.
“That old man! Old enough to be your father! And broke his first wife’s heart, too! You can’t pretend you love him!” in impatient anger.
“I worship him!” she answered, defiantly. “I do not thank you for calling him old, either. He is only eighteen years older than I am, and I don’t want him a day younger. I think him grand, magnificent!”