Then came a torrent of Italian--evidently a torrent of abuse; and then she lifted a gloved hand and struck the young man violently on the cheek.
"Take that!--you insolent--you--you barbarian! You are my _fiance_,--my promised husband--and you mock at me; you will encourage your stuck-up mother to mock at me--I know you will! But I tell you--" The speaker, however, had stopped abruptly, and instead of saying anything more she fell back panting, her eyes on the young man.

For Herbert Dunstable had risen.

At the blow, an amazing change had passed over his weak countenance and weedy frame.

He put his hand to his forehead a moment, as though trying to collect his thoughts, and then he turned--quietly--to look for his hat and stick.
"Where are you going, Herbert ?" stammered Madame.

"I--I was carried away--I forgot myself!" "I think not," said the young man, who was extremely pale.