"Am I to understand you repent not having bound yourself for life to that unmitigated villain?"
I burst out laughing.
"Poor Sir Mark!" I cry. "A scoundrel! a villain! What next? He tried to do the best he could for me, and gets only abuse in return. Do I repent not having married him? Well, no. At that time I was not particularly in love with matrimony; I had no desire to form new ties. Now, indeed—I break off in pretended confusion.—- My head bends itself a little on one side. I gaze down consciously into Fifine's lustrous eyes.
"Phyllis," says my husband, with suppressed indignation, "whatever you may really mean by your words, I must beg that for the future I may hear no more of it; I—-" But here the horrible pain in my side comes back to me with its usual acute energy, and mischief fades from me. I push Fifine from my lap, and half rise.
"If you are going to be tragical," I say, "I hope you will leave me. I care neither for Sir Mark Gore, nor any other man, as you ought to know. Oh, my side!" I gasp, pressing my hand to it, and becoming colorless.
My breath and voice fail me. In a moment his kind arms are round me. My head falls helpless on his shoulder, as though I were a mere child (and indeed I am little more in his strong grasp, now sickness has reduced me). He carries me to a sofa, and does for me all that can be done, until the first unbearable anguish is past. Then, with his arm under my head, so as to raise me, he sits waiting in silent watchfulness until rest and ease return.
"You're not rid of me yet," I whisper, with a faint mocking smile, as I notice the fear and misery in his face. "Don't look so woebegone."
Suddenly he falls on his knees beside my couch, though still supporting me.
"I can't bear it any longer." he says, passionately "Darling! darling! why will you kill yourself? How can I watch you dying by inches? Have pity for me, if you have none for yourself, and save me from going mad. Phyllis, dearest?" controlling himself by an effort, and trying to speak more calmly, "why can you not look upon me as a cousin, or brother, or father, and let me take you abroad to some place where you can get change of air and scene, and where I may at least be near enough to protect you and see that you want for nothing?"
"My father" return I, with an amused laugh: "just compare yourself with papa; think of the inhuman length of his nose. I am afraid it would not do. The world, simple as it has shown itself, would hardly accept you in that light. You grow younger and fresher every day. It is wonderful how little the agony of your mind preys upon your body."