“You must take money,” said he, thrusting his hand into his pocket, and once more pulling out his purse—“that is worth something, surely.”
She waved her hand again, with a gesture of repulse still more indignant and frightful than before, and the bitter smile she gave while doing it again displayed her corpse-like teeth in a manner that was calculated to excite horror itself.
“Very well,” replied the baronet; “I will not press you, only don't make such cursed frightful grimaces. But with respect to my daughter, will the marriage be with her own consent?”
“With her own consent—it will be the dearest wish of her heart.”
“Could you name her husband?”
“I could and will. Lord Dunroe will be the man, and he will make her Countess of Cullamore.”
“Well, now,” replied the other, “I believe you can speak truth, and are somewhat acquainted with the future. The girl certainly is attached to him, and I have no doubt the union will be, as you say, a happy one.”
“You know in your soul,” she replied, “that she detests him; and you know she would sacrifice her life this moment sooner than marry him.”
“What, then, do you mean.” he asked, “and why do you thus contradict yourself?”
“Good-by, Thomas Gourlay,” she replied. “So far as regards either the past or the future, you will hear nothing further from me to-day; but, mark me, we shall meet again—-and we have met before.”