“Everard Dawn!” she answered, in a hollow voice, and her eyes glowed like live coals among dead embers, so ashy-pale was her beautiful face.
Pressing her gloved hand upon her side, as if her heart’s wild throbbings threatened to suffocate her, she [called], hoarsely:
“Why are you here? How dare you face me, traitor?”
“I have not come to forgive you, Mrs. Varian, be sure of that!” he answered, sternly.
“You do well to talk of forgiveness—you!” she sneered, stamping the ground with her dainty foot.
“And—you—madame—would—do—well to crave it—not that it would ever be granted you, remember. Only angels could forgive injuries like mine!” the man answered, stormily, with upraised hand, as if longing to strike her down in her defiant beauty.
She did not shrink nor blanch, but her face was a picture of emotional rage, dead white against the setting of satin-black tresses and rich seal fur, her eyes flashing as only great oriental black eyes can flash, and her rare beauty of form showing to advantage as she drew herself haughtily erect, hissing out:
“Go, Everard Dawn! Take your hated form from my sight ere I summon my servants to drive you from the grounds!”
Turning, as if to put her threat into execution, she was arrested by a stern voice that said significantly:
“It is more to your interest to listen to me one moment, Mrs. Varian.”