“Oh, very well!” he cried, sarcastically. “If you won’t let me out that way, I’ll go this!”
And he turned towards the tiny conservatory, which led down into the garden; but she was on him, and there was no hesitation about her; she held him firmly by the hand.
“If you do I’ll blow a police-whistle!” she said. “We have one—it won’t take an instant. You shan’t come out the front way, and you’ll be stopped if you climb the wall!”
“But why? Do you take me for a lunatic, or what?” he gasped out bitterly.
“Never mind what I take you for!”
“You’re treating me as though I were one!”
“You’ve got to stay and see my uncle.”
“I shan’t! Let me go, I tell you! You shall you shall! I hate your uncle, and you too!” But that was only half true, even then while he was struggling almost as passionately as though the girl had been another boy. He could not strike her; but that was the only line he drew, for she would grapple with him, and release himself he must. Over went walnut whatnots, and out came mutterings that made him hotter than ever for very shame. But he did not hate her even for what she made him say; all his hatred and all his fear were of the dreadful doctor whose will she was obeying; and both were at their highest pitch when the door burst open, and in he sprang to part them with a look. But it was a look that hurt more than word or blow; never had poor Pocket endured or imagined such a steady, silent downpour of indignation and contempt. It turned his hatred almost in a moment to hatred of himself; his fear it only increased.
“Leave us, Phillida,” said Baumgartner at last. Phillida was in tears, and Pocket had been hanging his head; but now he sprang towards her.
“Forgive me!” he choked, and held the door open for her, and shut it after her with all the gallantry the poor lad had left.