“Indeed,” replied Raby, as unconcernedly as she could.
“Yes—and shall I tell you the name I pledged? Ah, I see you know, Raby.”
“Mr Scarfe, I want to go back to the drawing-room; please take me.”
Scarfe took her hand. His head was swimming, partly with excitement, partly with the effects of the supper.
“Not till I tell you I love you, and—”
“Mr Scarfe, I don’t want to hear all this,” said Raby, snatching her hand away angrily, and moving to the door.
He seized it again rudely.
“You mean you don’t care for me?” asked he.
“I want to go away,” said she.
“Tell me first,” said he, detaining her; “do you mean you will not have me—that you don’t love me?”