"You have hurt me," she repeated, in a whisper.
"Of course," proceeded her lord and master, with fresh gusto, "I can quite understand, dear, that you should shrink a little from the business. It would naturally be a slightly painful one. Your social duties occupy you a good deal, and——" he tenderly pulled her ear, "you have not much inclination for literary labour, have you? Therefore, my love, overworked as I am, I have resolved to take the matter into my own hands. In fact, I have actually promised Major Bethune that I will be responsible for the task."
"You!"
Her pale lips laughed silently.
"Yes, I myself." He rubbed his hands and nodded. "I shall make the time, my love."
"You?" she repeated, and rose stiffly to her feet. "No."
"My dear Rosamond!"
It had come upon her, after all. Here would no refusal serve her any more, no strength of determination, no piteousness of pleading. Before this smiling self-confidence of will what resistance could avail? It is the relentless trickle that wears the stone.
"No hands but mine, at least. No eyes but mine!"
"My dear child!"