“And I suppose you want forgiveness now?” he added bitterly.  “But I have had enough of that.  A woman pledges you her affection, promises to marry you, professes to have no doubts as to the future; and all the while she is secretly encouraging the attentions of a young jackanapes who is playing with her and making a fool of her.”

Wenna Rosewarne’s cheeks began to burn red:  a less angry man would have taken warning.

“Yes, playing with her and making a fool of her.  And for what?  To pass an idle time and make her the by-word of her neighbors.”

“It is not true, it is not true,” she said indignantly; and there was a dangerous light in her eyes.  “If he were here, you would not dare to say such things to me—­no, you would not dare.”

“Perhaps you expect him to call after the pretty exploit of last night?” asked Roscorla with a sneer.

“I do not,” she said.  “I hope I shall never see him again.  It is—­it is only misery to every one.”  And here she broke down, in spite of herself.  Her anger gave way to a burst of tears.

“But what madness is this?” Roscorla cried.  “You wish never to meet him again, yet you are ready at a moment’s notice to run away with him, disgracing yourself and your family.  You make promises about never seeing him:  you break them the instant you get the opportunity.  You profess that your girlish fancy for a barber’s block of a fellow has been got over; and then, as soon as one’s back is turned, you reveal your hypocrisy.”

“Indeed I did not mean to deceive you,” she said imploringly.  “I did believe that all that was over and gone.  I thought it was a foolish fancy.”

“And now?” said he hotly.

“Oh, Mr. Roscorla, you ought to pity me instead of being angry with me.  I do love him:  I cannot help it.  You will not ask me to marry you?  See, I will undertake not to marry him—­I will undertake never to see him again—­if only you will not ask me to keep my promise to you.  How can I?  How can I?”

“Pity you! and these are the confessions you make!” he exclaimed.  “Why, are you not ashamed of yourself to say such things to me?  And so you would undertake not to marry him?  I know what your undertakings are worth.”

He had struck her hard—­his very hardest indeed—­but she would not suffer herself to reply, for she believed she deserved far more punishment than he could inflict.  All that she could hope for, all that her whole nature cried out for, was that he should not think her treacherous.  She had not intentionally deceived him.  She had not planned that effort at escape.  But when, in a hurried and pathetic fashion, she endeavored to explain all this to him, he would not listen.  He angrily told her he knew well how women could gloss over such matters.  He was no schoolboy to be hoodwinked.  It was not as if she had had no warning:  her conduct before had been bad enough, when it was possible to overlook it on the score of carelessness, but now it was such as would disgrace any woman who knew her honor was concerned in holding to the word she had spoken.