‘You mean that _I_ am the most unfortunate man in the world, ever to have set my heart on a girl who doesn’t care two straws for me. I can see through you now, Maraquita. You were willing enough to commit the sin, but you are too great a coward to face the consequences of it. You have deceived and disobeyed your parents over and over again, when it suited your pleasure to do so, but when it comes to a question of marrying the man you profess to love, you take refuge behind the transparent screen of filial duty and affection. I was good enough for your lover, it appears, but I am _not_ good enough to be your husband. You have higher views in prospect for yourself, and I may go anywhere,--be kicked out of my appointment, and cast homeless on San Diego--what does it signify to you, so long as you become Lady Johnstone, and have plenty to eat and drink, and a spotless reputation. But it shall not be! You have made yourself _mine_, and I refuse to give you up. If you attempt to become the wife of any other man, whether in deference to your parents’ wishes, or your own, I will blast your name from north to south, till the commonest fellow on the island would refuse to give you his. Every black in San Diego shall know _what_ you are, a light love, a false woman, and a heartless mother.’ ‘You shall not--_you dare not_!’ gasped Maraquita, now thoroughly frightened. ‘You shall see what I can _dare_!’ he exclaimed wildly. ‘For I will take your life and my own, sooner than give you up to another.’ And with that Henri de Courcelles walked away, and left her sitting there by herself. As soon as she was convinced he was not coming back again, Quita rose, and with trembling steps walked slowly back to the White House. He had succeeded in completely alarming her. She had never seen him like this before, and he was terrible in his anger. His black eyes had gleamed on her like polished steel, and his hand had involuntarily sought his side, as though ready to grasp an invisible stiletto. Quita felt certain he would be capable of any violence, if not restrained, and fear lent her boldness. She would secure one friend at least in her extremity, and whatever it cost her she would confide her trouble to her mother. She found Mrs Courtney alone in her own room, lying on a sofa, with bare feet, and the last novel that had reached San Diego in her hand. But as she saw Maraquita enter the chamber, she raised herself to a sitting position. ‘My dearest child! what is the matter? You are looking quite ill again.’ ‘Oh, mamma, mamma,’ cried Quita, sinking at her mother’s feet, ‘I am so unhappy!’ And then, in a broken voice, and with her face still hidden, she told the story of her disgrace, and the danger which appeared to threaten her.