“I love you⁠—ay, you shudder. One day you will not do that.”

“You call this love, your Grace?” she cried out, between scorn and misery.

“Something near it,” he answered imperturbably.

“God help you then!” she shivered, thinking of one other who had loved her so differently.

“Belike He will,” was the pleasant rejoinder. “But we wander from the point. It is this: you shall retire to your chamber at once⁠—er⁠—armed with the key⁠—an you will swear to marry me tomorrow.”

Very white, she made as if to rise. The thin fingers closed over her shoulders, forcing her to remain.

“No, my dear. Sit still.”

Her self-control was slipping away from her; she struggled to be free of that hateful hand.