“For you?”
“No, for yourself. Mightn’t we both have done better?”
“I’ve done nothing,” he murmured, between his arms.
“It’s not a fine confession,” she laughed, curtly; “but you chose.”
“Between what?”
“Between these arms and mine,” she said, slowly, tapping the chair; “between horsehair and flesh and blood. And you chose the horsehair.”
“It’s permanent,” he retorted, somewhat piqued, “and it hasn’t a pulse.”
“Oh, no,” she sighed, “it’s a ‘dead-sure thing’—dead and sure, they’re about the same; you can’t reckon up things that live; and, as for a pulse, it beats faster for other things than fever, you know, and it’s not only the doctor who feels it.”
“Feels it flag?” he queried.
“Oh, bother you!” she exclaimed. “If all men were such chickens, who’d ever marry?”