“I would die first.”
“Nay, you’ll die later, Madam Bannister, but not for many years, I hope,” he told her, with a theatrical bow.
“Do you think me so weak a thing as your words imply?”
“Rather so strong that the glory of overcoming y’u fills me with joy. Believe me, madam, though your master I am not less your slave,” he mocked.
“You are neither my master nor my slave, but a thing I detest,” she said, in a low voice that carried extraordinary intensity.
“And obey,” he added, suavely. “Come, madam, to horse, for our honeymoon.”
“I tell you I shall not go.”
“Then, in faith, we’ll re-enact a modern edition of ‘The Taming of the Shrew.’ Y’u’ll find me, sweet, as apt at the part as old Petruchio.” He paced complacently up the room and back, and quoted glibly:
“And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humor.
He that knows better how to tame a shrew,
Now let him, speak; ’tis charity to show.”
“Would you take me against my will?”