"They must take their chance. The suffering cannot be all on one side. We must accept our share of misery, as it comes, with the best grace we can."
"I will riot," I cry, passionately. "All my life I have determined to be happy, and I will succeed. Whatever happens, whatever comes of it, I refuse to be miserable."
"What a child you are!" says he, almost pityingly.
"I am not. I am talking quite rationally. I firmly believe we all make half our own grievances."
"And what becomes of the other half?"
"Let us leave the subject," I say petulantly, ignoring my inability to answer him. "You are dull and prosy. If you insist on being a martyr, be one, but do not insist also on my following in your footsteps. Because you choose to imagine yourself unhappy, is no reason why I should not be gay."
"Certainly not," replies he, with increasing gloom, and brings the whip down sharply across the ponies' backs.
Instantly, almost as the lash touches their glossy skins, they resent the insult. The carriage receives a violent shock. They fling themselves backwards on their haunches, and in another moment are flying wildly on, regardless of bit or curb or rein.
As I realize the situation, I grow mad with fright. Losing all sense of self-control, I rise from my seat and prepare to throw myself out of the phaeton. Surely the hard and stony road must be preferable to this reckless deadly flight.
Seeing my intention, Sir Mark rises also.