She slipped from the room before he could prevent her and left him pacing the floor in a cold rage.  It was only a moment, however, until she returned, bringing a lamp, which she placed on a table, and then asked him to be seated, in a stiff, formal way, which at once irritated and enchanted him.  He sat down and devoured her with his eyes.  He was angry when she went for the lamp; but, as its light fell on her rich, dark hair, her high color, and her long, graceful figure, as she leaned back in her chair, he felt that the tenderest conversation with her in the darkness would lose something of the pleasure that the eyes took in her.  This he said to her, in his coarse but effective way.

She answered him with coquettish grace, willing to postpone the serious talk she dreaded so.  But the conversation was in stronger hands than hers, and she found herself forced, in a few minutes, to either go with him, or give a reason why.

“The fact is, then,” she stammered, with a great effort, “I don’t know you well enough yet.  Why cannot you wait a while?”

He laughed.

“Come with me, and you will know me better in a day than you would here in a year.  Do not waste these precious moments.  Our happiness depends upon it.  We have everything we can desire.  I cannot be myself here.  I cannot disclose my rank and my wealth to these people who have only known me as an apostle of labor.  I want to go where you will be a great lady.  Oh, come!” he cried, with an outburst of pent-up fire, throwing himself on the floor at her feet, and laying his head upon her knee.  She was so moved by this sudden outbreak, which was wholly new to her experience, that she almost forgot her doubts and fears.  But a remnant of practical sense asserted itself.  She rose from her chair, commanded him once more to be seated, and said: 

“I am afraid I am going to offend you, but I must ask you something.”

“Ask me anything,” he said, with a smile, “except to leave you.”

She thought the phrase so pretty that she could hardly find courage to put her question.  She blushed and stammered, and then, rushing at it with desperation, she said: 

“That money—­where did you get it?”

“I will tell you when we are married.  It is a secret.”

He tried still to smile, but she saw the laughter dying away from his face.

Her blood turned cold in her veins, but her heart grew stronger, and she determined to know the worst.  She was not a refined or clever woman; but the depth of her trouble sharpened her wits, and she instinctively made use of her woman’s wiles to extort the truth from the man who she knew was under the spell of her beauty, whatever else he was.

“Come here!” she said.  Her face was pale, but her lips were smiling.  “Get down there where you were!” she continued, with tender imperiousness.  He obeyed her, hardly daring to trust his senses.  “Now put your hands between my hands,” she said, still with that pale, singular smile, which filled him with unquiet transports, “and tell me the truth, you bad boy!”