"Possibly! But that is for her to say. I claim the right to take the refusal from her own lips."
Fenton looked at him with an impudent parody of compassion. "Don 't you think you have had refusals enough? You must enjoy them!"
Roger turned away with an imprecation, but he continued to swallow his impatience. "Mr. Fenton," he said, "you have not come here, I know, to waste words, nor have I to waste temper. You see before you a desperate man. Come, make the most of me! I am willing, I am delighted, to be fleeced! You will help me, but not for nothing. Name your terms."
Fenton flinched, but he did not protest; he only gave himself the luxury of swaggering a little. "Well, you see," he answered, "my assistance is worth something. Let me explain how much. You will never guess! I know your story; Nora has told me everything,—everything! We have had a great talk. Let me give you a little hint of my story,—and excuse egotism! You proposed to her; she refused you. You offered her money, luxury, a position. She knew you, she liked you enormously, yet she refused you flat! Now reflect on this."
There was something revolting to Roger in seeing his adversary profaning these sacred mysteries; he protested. "I have reflected, quite enough. You can tell me nothing. Her affections," he added stiffly, to make an end of it, "were pre-engaged."
"Exactly! You see how that complicates matters. Poor, dear little Nora!" And Fenton gave a twist to his mustache. "Imagine, if you can, how a man placed as I am feels toward a woman,—toward the woman!
