"That a maid is honoured by the affection of any good man."
"Dost thou love me?"
"No," said Dorothy, rising also and removing his hands.
Windybank's eyes were blue like those he confronted, but they were as shifty as the maiden's were steady, and whilst the blue of hers deepened with anger, his assumed a greenish tint that was both uncomely and cruel. For a moment he stared into the azure deeps before him, trying to fathom them. He failed.
"Would 'No' have been Jack Morgan's answer?" he asked.
Dorothy's eyes flashed, but her lips remained closed. She showed no signs of anything save anger. The baffled lover lost his head, and with it went his common sense and veneer of gentlemanly breeding.
"Silence is answer enough," he snarled. "Morgan's black eyes and swarthy face have bewitched thee as thou hast bewitched me. Well, take thy choice between us. He hath the start of me in inches, but a moon-calf would hardly benefit by bargaining wits with him—a grinning, guzzling giant whose chief delight is singing songs in a tavern or wrestling with brawny clowns as empty-headed as himself!"
Windybank paused for breath, and Dorothy faced him as unflinchingly as before, her lips curling in contempt.
"Hast nothing to say now?" he went on. "Have I not given thee matter for contradiction, fuel to feed the fires of thine anger?"
"John Morgan needs no woman's help," she said quietly.