'Arthur Rhodes might have spoken that.'
'Rhodes!' he shook off the name in disgust. 'Pet him as much as you like; don't . . .' he was unable to phrase his objection.
She cooled him further with eulogies of the chevaleresque manner of speaking which young Mr. Rhodes could assume; till for very wrath of blood—not jealousy: he had none of any man, with her; and not passion; the little he had was a fitful gust—he punished her coldness by taking what hastily could be gathered.
Her shape was a pained submission; and she thought: Where is the woman who ever knows a man!—as women do think when one of their artifices of evasion with a lover, or the trick of imposingness, has apparently been subduing him. But the pain was less than previously, for she was now mistress of herself, fearing no abysses.
Dacier released her quickly, saying: 'If I come tomorrow, shall I have the promise?'
She answered: 'Be sure I shall not lie.'
'Why not let me have it before I go?'
'My friend, to tell you the truth, you have utterly distracted me.'
'Forgive me if I did hurt your hand.'
'The hand? You might strike it off.'