“In the way customary between gentlemen,” replied Fillmore haughtily.
“That will not suit me,” said the Marquise, shaking her head. “I am neither old enough nor young enough to care to be the subject of a duel, especially on such grounds. I must fight my battles in my own way; but you shall be my weapon, if you will.”
“Your weapon?”
“Yes: my legal thunderbolt! You shall conduct my case against him.”
“I cannot do that!” said Fillmore after a pause.
“Can you not? Then there can be nothing more between you and me. I will never see you again.”
“It would not be honorable,” exclaimed Fillmore, bending forward and grasping the edges of the table with his hands. “I was employed to draw up the will, and I have acted in Mrs. Lancaster’s interests, and in those of her husband. I could not retain my standing and integrity as a lawyer, and do what you ask. I could not justify it to myself as a man. My profession has brought me to a knowledge of all the crime and weakness and rascality in human nature; and I have always tried to do right and justice, and I have never, for any cause, been a rascal myself. If I were to do this, it would be the last act of my professional life.” Fillmore was extraordinarily moved; his voice faltered, and he stopped.
“In other words,” said Perdita, with the quiet mercilessness that sometimes showed itself in her character, “you think our acquaintance has gone far enough. I agree with you, sir. I will not detain you any longer.”
“No: I cannot give you up,” returned Fillmore, after a short silence. He sighed heavily. In the struggle of opposing wills, he felt that the woman had the advantage. “If I refuse,” he said, “you threaten me with a punishment greater than I can bear. But if I consent ...” he stepped forward and put his hands strongly upon her shoulders, and looked with power into her eyes. It was the first time he had ever touched her, save to take her hand in greeting or farewell. She could feel the emotion that made his arms vibrate. It gave her a new impression of him.