She smiled faintly.  “I see you don’t believe me.  Well, it doesn’t matter.  I’ve seen Mr. Tetlow and he has given me a place at twelve a week in his office.”

Norman sank back in his chair.  “He is in for himself now?”

“No.  He’s head clerk for Pitchley & Culver.”

“Culver!” exclaimed Norman.  “I don’t want you to go into Culver’s office.  He’s a scoundrel.”

Again Dorothy smiled faintly.  Norman colored.  “I know he stands well—­as well as I do.  But I can’t trust you with him.  That sounds ridiculous but—­it’s true.”

“I think I can trust myself,” she said quietly.  Her grave regard fixed his.  “Don’t you?” she asked.

His eyes lowered.  “Yes,” he replied.  “But—­why shouldn’t you come back with us?  I’ll see that you get a much better position than Culver’s giving you.”

Over her face crept one of those mysterious transformations that made her so bafflingly fascinating to him.  Behind that worldly-wise, satirical mask was she mocking at him?  All she said was:  “I couldn’t work there.  I’ve settled it with Mr. Tetlow.  I go to work to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” he cried, starting up.

“And I’ve found a place to live.  Pat and Molly; will take care of things for you here.”

“Dorothy!  You don’t mean this?  You’re not going to break off?”

“I shan’t see you again—­except as we may meet by accident.”

“Do you realize what you’re saying means to me?” he cried.  “Don’t you know how I love you?” He advanced toward her.  She stood and waited passively, looking at him.  “Dorothy—­my love—­do you want to kill me?”

“When are you to be married?” she asked quietly.

“You are playing with me!” he cried.  “You are tormenting me.  What have I ever done that you should treat me this way?” He caught her unresisting hands and kissed them.  “Dear—­my dear—­don’t you care for me at all?”

“No,” she said placidly.  “I’ve always told you so.”

He seized her in his arms, kissed her with a frenzy that was savage, ferocious.  “You will drive me mad.  You have driven me mad!” he muttered.  And he added, unconscious that he was speaking his thoughts, so distracted was he:  “You must love me—­you must!  No woman has ever resisted me.  You cannot.”

She drew herself away from him, stood before him like snow, like ice.  “One thing I have never told you.  I’ll tell you now,” she said deliberately.  “I despise you.”

He fell back a step and the chill of her coldness seemed to be freezing the blood in his veins.

“I’ve always despised you,” she went on, and he shivered before that contemptuous word—­it seemed only the more contemptuous for her calmness.  “Sometimes I’ve despised you thoroughly—­again only a little—­but always that feeling.”

For a moment he thought she had at last stung his pride into the semblance of haughtiness.  He was able to look at her with mocking eyes and to say, “I congratulate you on your cleverness in concealing your feelings.”