“Yes, but I will. Come. I wish to show you that my manly dignity can rise superior to holding worsteds.”
He took up a skein and stretched it on his hands; she loosened a thread and began to wind; both with gloomy brows. When she had half done, she flung down the ball, and burst into a laugh. “No, no; you can’t face it out. You look silly in spite of that noble frown. How do you suppose you appear to those ladies down there under the trees, with your hands raised in that gesture of stage-supplication? You look as if you were imploring me for your life—or something; and here I am making all these cabalistic motions,” she resumed her winding, “as if I were weaving a spell around you! Do let us stop it! And I’ll get Miss Jewett to help me.
“No, go on,” said Gilbert. “If you offer to stop, I shall clasp my hands!”
“Oh, oh!” shouted Mrs. Farrell. “Don’t, for pity’s sake! Was ever a poor sorceress so at her victim’s mercy before? This skein is nearly done. Will you put down your hands, you cruel object of my unhallowed arts?”
“I will, if you’ll let me put them up again, and help finish the other skeins. If you don’t consent, I’ll keep holding them so.”
“Well, then I’ll leave you in that interesting attitude.”
“If you dare to rise, I’ll follow you all about in it.”
“Oh dear me! I really believe you would. There, take up another skein.”
“No, you must put it on, yourself; I’ve just got my hands in the right places.”
“But you said you’d put them down if I’d let you put them up again,” lamented Mrs. Farrell.