There was a note of quiet determination in his voice, albeit it was so sad, which told the other that he meant every word he uttered.
“Then choose for yourself,” he cried, almost beside himself with grief and mortified pride, “and choose beggary with your wife, for not one shilling from the Dunforth coffers shall you ever touch!”
“But I am not a beggar quite yet, my lord; I have my own income,” returned Adrian, proudly, yet smiling, in spite of himself, for his income was no mean one.
“Then leave me—begone!”
“Sir——”
“Not another word, unless you will yield to me!” shouted the earl.
“I cannot!”
“Then go! Marry your plebian beggar, and never darken Dunforth’s doors again!”
“Is that your ultimatum? Have you no sympathy nor mercy?” asked Adrian, growing very white about the mouth, though his eyes gleamed with a lurid light.
His lordship caught his breath hard at these questions. Who should have sympathy if not he? But he would not yield.