“To quarrel with Boris? To injure him in any way? No! that I will not do. It would be to quarrel also with my old friend Conall. Not thee! Not man or woman living, could make me do that! Sit down and I will tell thee a better way.”
“No, I will not sit down till thou say ‘yes’ to what I ask”; for some womanly instinct told her that while Adam was cowering over the hearth blaze and she stood in all her beauty and splendour above him, she controlled the situation. “Thou must help me!”
“To what or whom?”
“I want to marry Boris.”
“Dost thou love him?”
“Better than might be. When mine he is all mine, then I will love him.”
“That is little to trust to.”
“Thou art wrong. It is of reasons one of the best and surest. Not three months ago, a little dog followed thee home, an ugly, half-starved little mongrel, not worth a shilling; but it was determined to have thee for its master, and thou called it thy dog, and now it is petted and pampered and lies at thy feet, and barks at every other dog, and thou says it is the best dog on the Island. It is the same way with husbands. Thou hast seen how Mary Minorie goes on about her bald, scrimpy husband; yet she burst out crying when he put the ring on her finger. Now she tells all the girls that marriage is ‘Paradise Regained.’ When Boris is my husband it will be well with me, and not bad for him. He will be mine, and we love what is our own.”
“Why wilt thou marry any man? Thou wilt be rich.”