"Monsieur D'Arblet, I must implore you to calm yourself," she says, desperately.
"And how, mademoiselle, I ask you, am I to be calm when you speak of shattering the hopes of my life?" cries the vicomte, who is dancing about frantically backwards and forwards, in a clear space of three square yards, between the different pieces of furniture by which he is surrounded, all equally fragile, and equally loaded with destructible objects.
"Pray be careful, Monsieur D'Arblet, your sleeve nearly caught then in the handle of that Chelsea basket," cries Vera, in anguish.
"And what to me are Chelsea baskets, or china, or trash of that kind, when you, cruel one, are determined to scorn me?"
"Oh, if you would only come outside and have it out on the staircase," murmurs Vera, piteously.
"No, I will never leave this room, never, mademoiselle, until you give me hope; never will I cease to importune you until your heart relents towards the miserable who adores you!"
Here Monsieur D'Arblet made an attempt to get at his charmer by coming round the end of the velvet table.
Vera felt distracted. To allow him to execute his maneuver was to run the chance of being clasped in his arms; to struggle to get free was the almost certainty of upsetting the table.
She cast a despairing glance across the room at the bell-handle, which was utterly beyond her reach. There was no hope in that direction. Apparently, moral persuasion was her only chance.
"Monsieur D'Arblet, I forbid you to advance a step nearer to me!"