“Helen,” said Thorpe with new energy, “I forbid you to have anything to do with Amos Thorpe. I think he is a scoundrel and a sneak.”
“What grounds have you to think so?”
“None,” he confessed, “that is, nothing definite. But I know men; and I know his type. Some day I shall be able to prove something. I do not wish you to have anything to do with him.”
“I shall do as I please,” she replied, crossing her hands behind her.
Thorpe's eyes darkened.
“We have talked this over a great many times,” he warned, “and you've always agreed with me. Remember, you owe something to the family.”
“Most of the family seem to owe something,” she replied with a flippant laugh. “I'm sure I didn't choose the family. If I had, I'd have picked out a better one!”
The flippancy was only a weapon which she used unconsciously, blindly, in her struggle. The man could not know this. His face hardened, and his voice grew cold.
“You may take your choice, Helen,” he said formally. “If you go into the household of Amos Thorpe, if you deliberately prefer your comfort to your honor, we will have nothing more in common.”
They faced each other with the cool, deadly glance of the race, so similar in appearance but so unlike in nature.