“I would not cross its threshold for wealth untold!” she cried, obdurately.
“You mean to refuse his hand, then—to disobey my commands?”
“You may kill me if you choose, grandpapa, but you cannot coerce me into marrying that man!”
Her eyes blazed into his, blue and defiant, but he restrained his impulse to strike her again and said, angrily:
“Perhaps you think you will elope with Cecil Grant, and disgrace me as your mother did.”
Her cheek crimsoned, but she answered, in a softened tone:
“There would be no disgrace in marrying Cecil. He is noble, and good, and true.”
“And poor as poverty,” he sneered.
“There are worse things than poverty!” she answered, proudly, then dropped her face in her hands and burst into tears. The strain was growing too much for her weak nerves.
But her tears only irritated the hard old man.