The very revulsion of self-possession returning chilled her; then anger came, quick and hot; then pride. She deliberated, choosing her words coolly enough: “What chance do you mean, Mr. Siward?”
“A fighting chance. Can you give it to me?”
“A fighting chance? For what?”—very low, very dangerous.
“For you.”
Then, in spite of her, her senses became unsteady; a sudden ringing confusion seemed to deafen her, through which his voice, as if very far away, sounded again:
“Men who are worth a fighting chance ask for it sometimes—but take it always. I take it.”
Her pallor faded under the flood of bright colour; the blue of her eyes darkened ominously to velvet.
“Mr. Siward,” she said, very distinctly and slowly, “I am not—even—sorry—for you.”
“Then my chance is desperate indeed,” he retorted coolly.
“Chance! Do you imagine—” Her anger choked her.