"You are laughing at me, Violet."
"Remember, sir, that the first thing you have to do is to write to your father."
He instantly went to the writing-table and took up paper and pen. "Come along," he said. "You are to dictate it." But this she refused to do, telling him that he must write his letter to his father out of his own head, and out of his own heart. "I cannot write it," he said, throwing down the pen. "My blood is in such a tumult that I cannot steady my hand."
"You must not be so tumultuous, Oswald, or I shall have to live in a whirlwind."
"Oh, I shall shake down. I shall become as steady as an old stager. I'll go as quiet in harness by-and-by as though I had been broken to it a four-year-old. I wonder whether Laura could not write this letter."
"I think you should write it yourself, Oswald."
"If you bid me I will."
"Bid you indeed! As if it was for me to bid you. Do you not know that in these new troubles you are undertaking you will have to bid me in everything, and that I shall be bound to do your bidding? Does it not seem to be dreadful? My wonder is that any girl can ever accept any man."
"But you have accepted me now."
"Yes, indeed."