“Where to?”
“That is no longer your business.”
“Suppose I won’t let you go?”
Marjorie flinched; it was a new Barnard confronting her. Gone was the suave courtly lover, and in his place stood the primeval man, his baser passions roused. And she had once believed she cared for him. The thought stung.
“Drop this melodrama, Chichester,” she said cuttingly. “Your conduct has effectually killed whatever affection or respect I had for you.”
“You are wrong; I have been too patient with your whims and fancies. Hereafter I take what I want.” Barnard laughed recklessly. “Women do not usually refuse me; they like masters.”
“Do not class me with your associates,” she answered with scornful emphasis. “If you come any nearer me, Chichester, I shall scream for help.”
“And your reputation will be ruined if you are found here with me,” mockingly. “Think it over.” She remained silent. “Is it worth the risk?”
“Risk? I am not hesitating on that score,” proudly.
“I forgot your family motto, ‘Toujours sans tache’,” he taunted.