"My what?" said Toby, and suddenly she broke into a laugh. "Oh, don't be funny, Jake! Bunny rides him. Why shouldn't I?"
"That's quite a different thing," Jake said. "Bunny has a man's strength. You haven't. It's too dangerous a game for you, see? And I won't have it."
"All right," said Toby, picking up her riding-whip and turning to go.
He stretched out a hand to detain her. "You'll give me that promise," he said.
She paused for a second, and met the unswerving determination of his eyes. Then a sudden gleam of blue fire lit her own. She made a swift movement, and struck the outstretched hand lightly with the switch she carried.
It was a gesture of supreme insolence, but there was conscious daring in her look. Jake's hand leapt like an angry dog upon the switch and gripped it.
"That was a mistake," he said, and the words, though slow, had a cutting quality that was somehow more imposing than open wrath.
Toby faced him with unabated courage, but she had begun to quiver. She spoke no word.
Jake's hand fell. He turned from her, and pulled out his pipe. There was dignity in the action—the dignity of strength that refuses to assert itself.
And Toby suddenly crumpled. She sprang after him like a contrite child, and caught his arm. "Oh, Jake, forgive me! Do please forgive me! I'm a beast—a beast!" she cried tremulously.