Never before in all the world was that question asked in such a voice. Its tone like a dagger of ice touched the girl's heart with a deadly chill. She looked steadily and long into his eyes. At last with a little shiver she murmured inaudibly "noblesse oblige"—and answered his question:
"No, Mr. Rutledge, I will not be your wife."
Her words were as cold as her heart, and her self-possession as cold as either. She was surprised that her answer did not bring the faintest shadow of relief to Rutledge's drawn face—rather a greater distress. A tingle of fire shot through her bosom. (It was not too late—oh why did he not take her in his arms.)
"No, I will not be your wife," she repeated slowly. (It was not yet too late—oh why—) "I am deeply sensible of the honour you—"
"Stop! Don't say that! In God's name don't say that! Don't add mockery to—"
"Mr. Rutledge!"
For the moment Rutledge forgot that there was any person in the world other than Elise and himself.
"You have mocked me—you have played with me! And—"
"Will you please go, Mr. Rutledge!"
"Played with me—yes—as if I were the simplest—oh well, I have been—and you—you have been—you are—an artist. Tell me that you do not love me, that you have only laughed at me. Tell me!" he sneered.