"They are worse than useless," said Olive, in her cold, measured tones, as she looked fixedly at him. There was something either in her words or her look that stung him.
"You think me weak," he said; "but how is it possible for you to understand the thoughts and feelings of a man placed as I am."
"You will not go to Sir Thomas to-day, as you said you would," was all she answered.
"No, I will not go to Sir Thomas. She rejected me and she has accepted Pomeroy. Let her abide by her choice. Having kept the secret so long, I will keep it a little while longer. Let her find out, when no remedy can avail, that this man sought her for her money alone--that money which belongs to another. Had she been the beggar's daughter of Bethnal Green, I would have made her my wife."
He had spoken passionately, and he now got up and walked to the window, and stood I gazing out of it, as if to hide his emotion.
He had half emptied his glass of Burgundy when he first sat down. Olive now filled it up, while he stood thus with his back towards her, and then, quickly and deftly, from a little phial which she extracted from the bosom of her dress, she let fall into the wine three drops of some thick, dark tincture. Very white, but very determined, was the face that was turned next moment on Mr. Kelvin.
"You have scarcely tasted anything. Are you not going to finish your cutlet?"
"No," he said, as he turned from the window. "My appetite has gone. I can't eat."
"You will, at least, drink this glass of wine. If you cannot eat, you must drink."
She took up the glass of Burgundy as she spoke, and handed it to him with a hand that was as steady as his own. He took it without a word, and drank it slowly to the last drop. Then he gave her back the glass, making a slight grimace as he did so.