“I—I prefer you would not speak like that,” she protested.
“And why not?” with a light laugh. “Come, Christie, such fine airs are a trifle out of place. If I didn't know you were a concert hall artist, I might be more deeply impressed. As it is, I reckon you've heard love words before now.”
“Mr. Hawley, I have trusted you as a gentleman. I never came here except on your promise to bring me to my brother,” and she stood erect before him. “You have no right to even assume that I am Christie Maclaire.”
“Sure not; I don't assume. I have seen that lady too often to be mistaken. Don't try on that sort of thing with me—I don't take to it kindly. Perhaps a kiss might put you in better humor.”
He took a step forward, as though proposing to carry out his threat, but the girl stopped him, her eyes burning with indignation.
“How dare you!” she exclaimed passionately, all fear leaving her in sudden resentment. “You think me alone here and helpless; that you can insult me at your pleasure. Don't go too far, Mr. Hawley. I know what you are now, and it makes no difference what you may think of me, or call me; you 'll find me perfectly able to defend myself.”
“Oh, indeed!” sneeringly, “you are melodramatic; you should have been an actress instead of a singer. But you waste your talent out here on me. Do you imagine I fear either you, or your precious brother? Why, I could have him hung to-morrow.”
She was staring at him with wide open eyes, her face white.
“What—what do you mean? What has Fred done?”
He was cold and sarcastic.