He holds her, gazing at her despairingly. She would have spoken, perhaps, but no words come to her; no words to soften her grim determination. She will not marry him poor—and yet she loves him.
Rylton, with a stifled oath, pushes her from him.
"This is the end," says he.
He goes to the door.
"Maurice!" says she faintly.
He turns.
"Well, will you marry me to-morrow?" asks he mockingly.
"No. But——"
"There is no time for 'buts,'" says he.
He opens the door and closes it sharply behind him.
Mrs. Bethune flings herself back into a chair, and presses her handkerchief to her face.
"Oh, it is nothing, nothing," says she presently. She gets up, and, standing before a glass, arranges her hair and presses her eyebrows into shape. "He gets impatient, that is all. He will never be able to live without me. As for that absurd child, Maurice would not look at her. No, I am sure of him, quite, quite sure; to-morrow he will come back to me, repentant."
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