“You have not forgotten?” he cried, incredulously.
She put her hand to her brow, shuddering.
“I have had some kind of a strange turn, but I think you asked me if I knew some one. Was it Harold Castello?”
“Yes—do you?”
“No, grandpapa, I have never heard that name in my life!” shuddered Violet.
“Then why did you call him such vile names—wretch, villain, monster, murderer, thief, perhaps, as I can scarcely remember all your choice epithets?” sarcastically.
“Did I say all that?” murmured Violet, in a sort of dismay. Then she caught her breath and said, more naturally: “It is not strange that I called him names, is it? I hate him, you know, because you are trying to force him on me for a husband.”
“You need not pour out a whole flood of billingsgate on a gentleman because he does you the honor to offer you his hand.”
“The honor? Oh, Heaven!” cried Violet, in deep disgust.
“Yes, the honor,” repeated Judge Camden, angrily. “Why, you can reign like a queen in that palace of his on beautiful Prairie avenue.”