“I do most emphatically,” Editha answered, coldly and decidedly.
“Perhaps your affections are already engaged—perhaps you have already experienced that passion you term ‘love’ for some one else?” her father said, half eagerly, half sneeringly.
“I have never been asked to marry any one; no one has ever spoken of love to me,” she replied, with drooping lids and very crimson cheeks.
“That was very cleverly evaded, Miss Dalton,” he returned, with a mocking laugh. “I was not speaking of the love of any one for you, but of yours for some one else.”
“I decline to discuss the subject further with you, sir, but refuse to accept Mr. Tressalia’s attentions any longer with a view to an alliance with him.”
Miss Dalton was beginning to show her independent spirit.
“Perhaps,” sneered Mr. Dalton, now thoroughly aroused, and made reckless by her opposition, “your tastes would lead you to prefer to marry that handsome young convict whom you professed to admire so much once upon a time.”
Mr. Dalton had had his fears upon this subject for some time, owing to the constancy with which she sent him the tokens of her remembrance; but he had never hinted at such a thing until now.
Editha’s proud little head was lifted suddenly erect at his words; her eyes, blue and gentle as they were usually, had grown dark, and flashed dangerously; her nostrils dilated, and her breath came quickly from her red, parted lips.
He had touched upon a tender point.