“So, then, there was no plot?” Her eyes flashed with indignation.
“A plot, yes!” He glanced sidewise at the clock, and drew self-reliance from the very situation, which began to intoxicate him. “My plot, to attract you hither, by that message, that I might console myself for my fate by the joy of seeing you!”
“The joy of seeing me!” She spoke with incredulity and contempt.
A glad boldness had come over Peyton. He felt himself masterful, as one feels who is drunk with wine; yet, unlike such a one, he had command of mind and body.
“Ay, joy,” said he, “joy none the less that you are disdainful! Pride is the attribute of queens, and tenderness is not the only mood in which a woman may conquer. Heaven! You can so discomfit a man with your frowns, what might you do with your smile!”
He felt now that he could dissimulate to fool the very devil.
But Elizabeth, though interested as one may be in an oddity, seemed not otherwise impressed. ’Twas something, however, that she remained in the room to answer:
“I do not know what I have done with my frown, nor what I might do with my smile, but, whatever it be, you are not like to see!”
“That I know,” said Peyton, and added, at a reckless venture, “and am consoled, when I consider that no other man has seen!”