FORGET THAT I LOVED YOU
Then Ranald pulled himself together. He must break free or the fight would be lost before he had struck a blow.
"I need not say," he began once more, "how greatly gratified I am by this offer, and I feel sure you will believe that I am deeply grateful." Ranald's voice was low and even, but unknown to himself there was in it a tone of stern resolve that struck Mr. St. Clair's ear. He knew his manager. That tone meant war. Hastily he changed his front.
"Yes, yes, we are quite sure of that," he said, with increasing nervousness, "but we are thinking of our own interests as well as yours. Indeed, I feel sure"—here his voice became even more kindly and confidential—"that in advancing your position and prospects we are—I am only doing what will bring myself the greatest satisfaction in the end, for you know, Ranald, I—we do not regard you as a stranger. Ranald winced and grew pale. "We—my family—have always felt toward you as—well, in fact, as if you were one of us."
Mr. St. Clair had delivered his last and deadliest blow and it found Ranald's heart, but with pain blanching his cheek Ranald stood up determined to end the fight. It was by no means easy for him to strike. Before him he saw not this man with his ingenious and specious pleading—it would not have been a difficult matter to have brushed him aside—but he was looking into the blue eyes of the woman he had for seven years loved more than he loved his life, and he knew that when his blow fell it would fall upon
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