"Neither can I." My treacherous spirits are again ascending, "Let me describe her to you as at this moment I almost think I can see her. Seated in a bower, enshrined in roses and honeysuckles, with her hands folded listlessly upon her lap, and her large dreamy black eyes (I am sure her eyes are black) filled with repentant tears, she is now remembering with what cruel coldness she received your advances; while unmolested the pretty earwigs run races all over her simple white dress—simple but elegant, you know."
"H'm—yes."
"And now remorse has proved too much for her; she resolves on writing you a letter expressing contrition for her past heartlessness. She draws toward her paper, pens, and ink (in a three-volume novel the heroine has everything at her hand, even in the most unlikely places; there is never any fuss or scramble), and indites you a perfumed and coronetted note, which you will receive—to-morrow. There! Now, don't you feel better?"
"Infinitely so."
"What! still frowning? still in the lowest depths? I begin to doubt my power to comfort you."
"I don't feel any inclination to jest on the subject," returns Sir Mark, gruffly, making a vicious blow with the whip at an unoffending and nearly lifeless fly.
"Well, there," I gasp, in a sudden access of terror lest he might again incense the ponies, "I will jest no more. And don't despair. Perhaps—who knows?—she may grow fond of you in time."
He laughs, a short, bitter laugh that yet has something in it of dismal merriment. "If I could only tell you," he says, "if you only knew, you would understand what a double mockery are such words coming from your lips."
His fingers close around the whip again. Again frightened, I hastily clutch his arm.
"Don't do that," I entreat; "please do not use that dreadful whip again: remember the last time you did so we were nearly killed."