She ventured to glance at him. She could understand neither his tone nor his mood.
“You will leave your native land and go with a stranger to a foreign country?”
“Earle is no stranger, papa,” she said, quickly; “we have known him for years, and surely you ought to be willing to trust me with one so good and true as he is.”
“So good and true!” he repeated, mockingly. “You are exceedingly fond of Mr. Wayne?”
“Yes, sir, I am,” Editha now said, boldly, and turning her flashing eyes full upon him.
Her indignation was rising—her patience giving out under his scathing sarcasms.
“Mr. Wayne ought to be a happy man—he doubtless is a happy man in having so brave and fair a champion. It is so beautiful to witness such entire trust and confidence—such fervent affection. My dear, you can go to Europe with Mr. Wayne if you choose, I suppose, seeing that you have attained your majority, as he has once hinted to me, but—you cannot as his wife!”
The whole sentence was spoken with great apparent calmness and deliberation, but his eyes glowed like a burning flame upon the lovers standing so proudly side by side.
“If my majority gives me the right to choose upon one point, it does upon the other also, I suppose,” she returned, coldly.
“Oh, no, my dear, you are entirely mistaken there,” returned Mr. Dalton, with aggravating affability, and darting a fiery glance at Earle.