“You speak rashly,” I said. “I remember your story about the shepherd. Your petals would be pretty well rubbed by the time I’d done with you.”
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll take the risk. I believe I know you better than you do yourself.”
“Do you? I’ve half a mind, you little flower of fortune, to put you to the test.”
“I’m waiting.”
A stubborn devil was awake in me.
“Are you offering yourself my slave, or what, Miss Morgiana?”
“Your slave, if you like.”
“Very well. The floor wants scrubbing, and there’s a well outside. Get some water and scrub it.”
I thought she would fling away at once; but, instead, she took off her hat and jacket, found somewhere a pail and brush, and went outside very meekly. I listened wickedly. The windlass, I knew, would be a task for her chicken arms; and, indeed, I heard her plainly enough panting and struggling with it. But, for all that, she appeared presently, staggering, with her pail brimful; and I made no offer to relieve her of it.
“Now,” I said, “I won’t be witness to your awkwardness. I’m going for a walk, and to think over more important difficulties than yours. But, when I come back, I shall expect to find the place cleaned and tidied, and you gone.”