“Do you think I would permit you? Never!” her form trembling with indignation.
“Perhaps, then, you would not mind my speaking to Florian Gay?”
“Sue to those monsters? Never! As for Florian, I did not want him anyway. It was only—only—to save myself from tomorrow’s sensation, and to punish Desha,” she half-sobbed, growing hysterical in the realization of the impending morrow. “Oh, why did I not die?” she moaned, wildly.
“My dear young lady, would you sacrifice yourself for such ignoble wretches?” he remonstrated, gravely.
“I have told you I can not face tomorrow!” she groaned.
“You shall!” He caught his breath quickly. “I have a plan—rather a desperate one—to help you out of your difficulty, if you can consider it.”
“Oh!” she cried, her heart bounding out of the gulf of black despair up into the light of hope.
“It is only a suggestion, mind. You are not obliged to take my advice. Suppose you married some other man tonight, and get a paragraph into the morning papers making it appear you eloped with a favored suitor and left Desha in the lurch.”
“Oh!” she cried, impulsively again; and he continued:
“There would be no one to contradict this story, because Desha and Gay would surely be ashamed to confess their dastardly share in driving you to desperation. Thus your pride would be saved, and no one the wiser, your reputation for coquetry making it easy for the public to accept the story.”