“You must swallow your dislike, Clytie,” he said. “Why, God bless my soul, if ninety-nine women out of a hundred had that chance, they would get the eyes out of his head.”
“Would you so much desire me to be like ninety-nine women out of a hundred, then, Thornton?”
“Oh, nonsense, Clytie; you know what I mean. Come! Don't you see that here's a way of pushing things on a bit? What does it matter if the ass is attentive? You can laugh at him. But keep him in hand a bit until we want to let him loose. Do you see? Of course I trust you, and all that sort of thing.”
“I thank you for your confidence,” she replied. “But I don't think you will need to exercise it much.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, never mind. Do you really want me, Thornton, to encourage this man to make love to me, so as to get a hold on him for other purposes?”
“I never saw anyone like you for the dotting of i's,” said Thornton, amused. “But that's about the size of it. Don't you see what an infernal ass we can make of him? Well, think it over, little wife. Good-bye.”
He opened the front door,—this little conversation had taken place in the hall,—and ran down the steps very well pleased with himself.
But Clytie's heart turned from him and she passed a wretched day—all the more trying as she felt in honour bound to sing antistrophe of praise of Thornton to the strophe of Mrs. Farquharson, with whom she was lunching.
In the evening they were going out together. He came home late from Westminster, dressed hurriedly, and went down to the drawing-room, where Clytie was waiting. She was wearing a low-cut dress. Her arms were bare. A tiny diamond clasp to a thin gold chain flashed on her bosom.