My lady laughed; then seeing the anxiety of his face, the tremor of his clenched fist, she took that fist in her soft, cool fingers and drawing him within the arbour made him sit beside her.
"Pan dear," she said gently, "O rest secure in this:—'tis true I love my brother but no tender martyr am I so brave or so unselfish, even for his dear sake, to yield myself up to—the beasts. This body of mine I hold much too precious to glut their brutish appetite."
"Why then, Bet, promise me this folly shall cease, you'll see Dalroyd no more, at least at such an hour—promise me."
"No, Pancras."
"Ha! And wherefore not?"
"Because 'tis so my whim."
"Why then you leave me but one alternative, Betty."
"Prithee—what?"
"I'll stop it in despite of you."
"Cry you mercy, sir—how?"