“Fenn,” she said, gently, “Fenn, dear—”
“Don’t ‘Fenn, dear’ me unless you mean it! Don’t think you can placate me by soft words that mean nothing! Will you marry me, now?”
“I will not,” Elsie’s hauteur was the last straw.
“Then, you’ll stay here until you will!”
Whiting flung himself into a chair, and looked at her as if he held the whip-hand.
“What do you mean?” Elsie said, icily.
“These are my rooms. You are locked in here with me, alone. How long must you stay here before you decide it’s wiser to be my wife than—”
The look the girl gave him made him quail.
“Elsie,” he said, more gently.
“Hush! Don’t dare to speak to me again. Let me out!”