"This feigned anger adds to your beauty, Beatrix," he said.
"I beg you to leave me, sir," she replied, trembling. "Your presence is distasteful to me."
"A sudden turn," said he. "Now a month ago, or even a week ago, you seemed of a different mind. As for the days of our first meeting in merry London—ah, then your lips were not so unattainable."
"I hate you," she murmured. "I despise you. I loath you. You taint the air for me. Dog, to make a boast of having filched a kiss from a light-hearted girl—who did not know you for the common fellow that you are."
"Beatrix," cried the man, "this is no stage comedy. We are not players. I have asked you, too many times, to be my wife. I ask you once more. You know that your father's life is in my hands. Tell me now, will you promise to marry me, or will you let your father go to the gallows in the spring, and this plantation be put to the torch? Whatever your choice, my beauty, you will accompany me to New Spain next summer. It is for you to say whether you go as my wife or my mistress."
At that the girl's face went white as paper. But her eyes were steady.
D'Antons lowered his gaze. He was half-ashamed, nay, more than that, of his words.
"It would be hard to say," she replied, very softly, "which would be the most dishonourable position for an English gentlewoman to occupy. That of your wife, I think, monsieur—for, as your wife, she would be known by your name."
His shame leaped to anger at that soft-spoken insult. He caught her roughly by the wrists.