He is silent. Her words find an echo in his own heart. Why indeed? Seen in the hell-light of his renewed bondage, his plan for that one little halcyon week ahead seems to him to have been a monstrosity of folly and unreason. How could he, for even a moment, have entertained it?
Betty has sat down again upon the sofa; and wiping rather viciously the eyes in which an ireful light is flashing, she says softly, as if she were saying something rather pleasant:
'I am sure you would not wish to hurt her, or blight her young affections; and yet it seems to me that you are on the high-road to do both.'
He writhes, but he could not speak, if flaying alive were to be the penalty of his dumbness.
'I do not think'—still in that silky key—'that you have any right to turn the poor thing's head with attentions such as she has probably never received before.'
At that he laughs out loud, and insultingly:
'Turn her head! Ha! ha!'
'It is very amusing, no doubt,' rejoins Betty, her false suavity giving way to a most real fury, breast heaving, and colour rising, 'and such hilarity becomes you extremely; but, as she has probably never seen any one more attractive than the village apothecary, it would be no great excess of coxcombry on your part to suppose that you might be his successful rival.'
But this taunt fails to extract any reply. Exasperated by her insuccess in driving him into angry speech, she goes on:
'I do not think you have had to complain of her rigour; how many days'—with an innocent air of inquiry—'has she allowed you to mow her lawn, and milk her cow, and feed her pig for her? Six? Seven? I suppose you have been with her to-day, too?'