Slowly the hot blood ebbed from Clark’s face, and his eyes gleamed wickedly.
“Take care,” he said. “I admit I forgot myself; but God! you don’t know how I’ve longed to hold you in my arms; to feel your heart beating against mine. It was sheer madness; but the look in your dear eyes went to my head like wine. I thought I had won.”
“Do you think that such a cur as you can win an honest woman’s love?”
“Stop! Don’t go too far. I come of a race that never forgets an insult. My mother was a Neapolitan.” He drew a long breath. “That one moment was worth your hate.”
“My hate!” echoed Beatrice. “Say rather my loathing!” And she drew her handkerchief across her lips as if to wipe out the burning kisses he had showered upon her.
Clark saw the gesture and read its meaning. The fierce anger in his eyes almost made her quail.
“So,” he said, as soon as he could speak; “so I am not good enough to touch you—” He laughed insultingly. “Bah! you are not worth my love.”
Shaken and outraged as she was, Beatrice faced him proudly.
“This scene has gone far enough,” she said. “Go!”
“Go? Yes, I’ll go.” Clark fairly shook with rage as he bent towards her. “But be sure of one thing: I’ll get even, although it ruins me. Oh, I can do it, too—” seeing her look of disdain—“for—I know your secret!”