He loosed his grasp and I ostentatiously chafed my wrists. I was in a fury. I was driven to madness by the thought that John might force a quarrel upon Ned--the man I had rejected and the man that had rejected me! "I'll never marry you nor any poor man!" I cried out. "What have you to offer me? What can you do? Oh, yes, you can come and insult me, and talk to me of love--Love! The love that would make me a poor man's drudge!" Again I thrust his ring at him, the opal spitting angry blue and orange fires. I thought he would have struck at it. Heaven knows what mad instinct was at the back of his brain. I believe every man's a brute when the woman he loves defies him. I think his fingers tingled for the Cave man's club. At any rate, I shrank in terror from his eyes. But quickly the red light sank in them, and a puzzled look grew there instead, turning them very soft and pitiful. "Nelly, I cannot think you serious," he said. "We have always talked of marriage, and--is it an insult to press you for the day? Heart of me, I've been so much worried about you! Are you very sure that you have chosen the wisest part? If you are, I can only leave you to think it over, perhaps to--" "Don't preach!" I flung out at him a torrent of abusive words, resolved that he should think about me what he chose, so long as it was not the truth. He had no plea for himself; he saw that it would be useless. I stabbed him the more viciously as the anger died out of his face and left it only grave and pained. He looked older than I had ever seen him before; and on his temple, where he turned toward the window, gleamed a little streak of gray. "But, Nelly, what will you do?" he said at last. His tone was as level as if he were discussing some trivial matter. He had given up the fight, and, paying no heed to my unkindness, had fallen back upon the old habit, the instinct of looking out for me, smoothing my way after his own fashion that is so irritating. "You can't stay among these--these strangers, can you?" he continued. "Are you going home?" "To the farm? Never, I hope. Mrs. Van Dam, my chaperon, has many plans for me--better form than talking things over with a man. In the spring we may go abroad." He tried--poor, foolish fellow--to read from my face the riddle of a woman's heart before he answered:-- "I'm afraid I don't altogether understand you, Nelly." Presently he left me, wondering, even as I wonder now: Why don't I care for John? He's a strong man and he loves me. Just another of Nature's sorry jests, isn't it?