"I will not put on my hat."
"... I think you will."
"When will you give me back the letter?"
"When ... we have come to an understanding."
The word "understanding" tolled out across the dreary wastes of her consciousness like a death-bell.
"... Will you give it me to-night?"
"We can discuss that."
"Give it me now ... and I will go with you."
"No; I cannot give it you now. You have had your way ... in other things. I must have mine, for once, in this. Put on your hat."
She would have gone on her knees to anyone else in the world that should have obtained this dominion over her, but before this man, no. To beg of him, her shame was ashamed. Knowing what he had been wanting of her all these months—what he was wanting of her now—she dared not plead for a single concession; dared not put herself under the yoke of one small favor. Doubly she was at a disadvantage before him. All her wiles of womanhood; all her tears; all her soft persuasions; her clasping of hands; her dove-like wooing with the voice ... all that dear pedlar's basket of feminine graces to win the hearts and minds of man must be left undisplayed. To this man, of all men on earth, she must not plead.