“I don’t care,” put in Doris firmly, “I don’t care about this point of view of yours. I’ve a strong intuition that no good will come to you or to me by your association with this foreigner, Casteno. Believe me at least in this, that my father is not a man to speak or to act lightly, and he who really knows all, remember, says most solemnly that you must give this man’s friendship up now—at once.”
“I won’t,” I snapped decisively.
“For my sake,” she pleaded, and her eyes were lustrous with unshed tears.
“I have given my word,” I repeated, throwing my shoulders back with an effort.
“Break it. It was obtained from you by fraud,” suggested this gentle casuist. “’Twould be no sin.”
“But the money,” I cried, and the thought restored my determination to its full strength.
Even Doris wavered. The temptation was indeed cruel.
“The money will do us no good,” she replied at length. “I prefer we should wait.”
“But I don’t,” I retorted, setting my chin firmly and clenching my fists. “I am tired of being treated as a little less than your friend, dear heart, and a little more than an acquaintance. I want you—your father—ay, all the world,” I went on wildly, “to recognise me as your accepted lover. And inasmuch as José Casteno assists me to that end, I say now, once and for all, that I will not give him up for your father or anybody else. Besides, aren’t we told there’s a tide in the affairs of men? Well, I now put my intuition boldly against yours—against Colonel Napier’s—even against the vamped-up stories of the ugly old Hunchback of Westminster—and I say that this tide of fortune has at last come to me, and that I will take it at the full flood no matter who may raise their hand in protest.”
“You are quite determined?” gasped poor Doris, with a little shiver.