It seemed to me that she was more self-possessed now than she had been when first she entered the Room. Indeed, her Serenity appeared to grow as his waned perceptibly. She still was a little restless, wandering aimlessly about the Room, fingering the Books, the Papers, the Works of Art that lay everywhere about; but it seemed like the restlessness of Curiosity rather than of Excitement. In her own Mind she felt that she held the Winning Hand—of this I was convinced—and that she could afford to toy with and to befool the Man who had dared to measure his Power against hers.
After awhile, she sat down in her Chair which he had brought forward for her, and which stood close to the Desk.
"And now, Sir," she said with cool composure, "'tis You who must humour me. I have a fancy ... now, at this moment ... and my Desire is to be thoroughly spoiled."
"Every Whim of yours," he rejoined, "is a Command to your humble Slave."
"Truly?" she queried.
"Truly."
"Then will You let me see you ... sitting at your Desk ... Pen in hand ... writing something just for me?"
"All my work of late," he replied, "has been done because of You ... but I am no Poet. What I speak may have some Merit. What I write hath none."
"Oh!" she protested with well-simulated Coquetry, "what I desire You to write for me, Sir Actor, will have boundless Merit. It is just a couple of Lines designed to ... to ... prove your Love for me—Oh!" she added quickly, "I scarce dare believe in it, Sir ... I scare understood ... You remember, this morning in the Park, I was so excited, yet you asked me—to be—your Wife!"
"My Wife!" he cried, his Voice ringing with triumphant Passion. "And you would consent?——"