"By George, I would!"
Rising from her seat, Miss Truscott placed her two hands behind her back--in the manner in which the children do at school---and looked him boldly in the face.
"When I love another man?--when my whole heart only beats for him?--when, in a sense which you shall never understand, I am his, and he is mine?"
Mr. Ely fidgeted beneath the clear scrutiny of her wide-open eyes.
"Look here, Miss Truscott, I've told you already that I am not a man of sentiment."
"Do you call this a question of sentiment? Would you marry a woman who frankly tells you that she loathes you, and that she yearns for another man?"
"Loathes me, by gad! Nice thing, by George! Look here, Miss Truscott, you promised to be my wife----"
Mr. Ely was accentuating his words by striking together the palms of his hands, but Miss Truscott cut him short.
"Really, Mr. Ely, you are like a child. You indulge in the vainest repetitions. I promised fiddlesticks, for all I know! I don't intend to marry you, so there's an end of it."
"Don't you? We shall see!"