The hot torrent of words ceased. There was silence in the gaily-tinted, flower-filled salon, save for the tick of an absurd Louis Seize clock on the mantel. Under the gilt wheel of Time a cupid balanced back and forth, in a Rhinestone swing--"Yes," "No," the seesaw motion seemed to say.
The stillness was terrible to Severance. He did not get up from his knees. He did not release the women's waists from the girdle of his arms. His eyes were on the face of Marise. Never had he seen her so pale.
"For God's sake, speak!--one of you," he stammered.
Abruptly the girl pushed his arm away, and sprang to her feet.
"You are wicked!" she cried. "Horrible! It can't be true that this has happened to me. It's a nightmare. I want to wake up!"
Severance abandoned his prayerful position and faced her. He would have caught her hands, but she thrust him back with violence.
"I thought you were a modern Englishman, like other Englishmen--like all other decent men I've known. But you're not," she panted. "You're something out of the Middle Ages. No! you're before that You're of Ancient Rome--the time of the Borgias. Or Beatrice Cenci."
"Don't, don't, Marise, my child!" Mary joined soothing with command. "You'll make yourself ill. We must be calm. We must think."
"Think?" the girl repeated. "What is there to think about? Surely you don't suggest that I should 'reflect'--that I should study whether to accept or not such a--bargain?"
"That's a hard word!" Severance pleaded. "And as for Ancient Rome, I should say that it and modern Britain--or France--or even your own America--are the same at bed-rock. We're all volcanoes with our lava cooled a bit on the surface by laws--or civilisation. Human passions don't change; and the strongest of them is love. Anyhow, it is so with me. I'm half Greek, you know, and my English half is half Spanish."
"Dearest, when I tell you to 'think,' of course it depends on whether you love Tony or not," Mary Sorel reminded her daughter. But even she did not dare touch Marise at that moment. It would have been much like trying to pat a young, unfed leopardess. She, always keeping on the conventional side, had never before called Severance "Tony" to his face. As a parched patch of earth thirstily sucks in the least drop of dew, he caught at this sign of grace, and thanked his stars that he had made a reckless bid for Mary's friendship. She adored England and old English customs; above all, old English titles. In the midst of gratitude, the man knew her for a snob, and counted on the sacrifice she would offer the god of Snobbery. If anyone could help him, she could. If any counsel could prevail with the hurt, humiliated, angry girl, it would be her mother's.