His tone was crushingly absolute; she saw that he was white with anger.
She felt the colour die out of her own cheeks as she faced him. But the Vicar's few words had made a deep impression upon her; she forced back her fear.
"But, Eustace, is it true?" she said. "Is the man's wife really dying? If so—if so—surely you will let him off!"
His grasp upon her arm tightened. "Are you going to disobey me?" he said warningly.
His look was terrible, but she braved it. "Yes—yes, I am," she said, with desperate courage. "Eustace, I've never asked you to do anything before. Couldn't you—can't you—do this one thing?"
She met the blazing wrath of his eyes though her heart felt stiff with fear. It had come so suddenly, this ordeal, but she braced herself to meet it. Horrible though it was to withstand him, the thought came to her that if she did not make the effort just once she would never have the strength again.
"You think me very impertinent," she said, speaking quickly through quivering lips. "But—but—I have a right to speak. If I am to be—your wife, you must not treat me as—a servant."
She saw his look change. The anger went out of it, but something that was more terrible to her took its place, something that she could not meet.
She flinched involuntarily, and in the same moment he drew her close to him. "Ah, Daphne, the adorable!" he said. "I've never seen you at bay before! You claim your privileges, do you? You think I can refuse you nothing?"
She shrank at his tone—the mastery of it, the confidence, the caress.