“Make no arrangement. They shall be delivered to the person you intended them for. _I_ will make the arrangement.” “What do you mean?” “What I say. I have always told you that I would give them up to your wife. I shall keep my word. She is not your wife yet.” “This is foolery,” said Grandcourt, with undertoned disgust. It was too irritating that this indulgence of Lydia had given her a sort of mastery over him in spite of dependent condition. She did not speak. He also rose now, but stood leaning against the mantle-piece with his side-face toward her. “The diamonds must be delivered to me before my marriage,” he began again. “What is your wedding-day?” “The tenth. There is no time to be lost.” “And where do you go after the marriage?” He did not reply except by looking more sullen. Presently he said, “You must appoint a day before then, to get them from the bank and meet me—or somebody else I will commission;—it’s a great nuisance. Mention a day.” “No; I shall not do that. They shall be delivered to her safely. I shall keep my word.” “Do you mean to say,” said Grandcourt, just audibly, turning to face her, “that you will not do as I tell you?” “Yes, I mean that,” was the answer that leaped out, while her eyes flashed close to him. The poor creature was immediately conscious that if her words had any effect on her own lot, the effect must be mischievous, and might nullify all the remaining advantage of her long patience. But the word had been spoken. He was in a position the most irritating to him. He could not shake her nor touch her hostilely; and if he could, the process would not bring his mother’s diamonds. He shrank from the only sort of threat that would frighten her—if she believed it. And in general, there was nothing he hated more than to be forced into anything like violence even in words: his will must impose itself without trouble. After looking at her for a moment, he turned his side-face toward her again, leaning as before, and said, “Infernal idiots that women are!” “Why will you not tell me where you are going after the marriage? I could be at the wedding if I liked, and learn in that way,” said Lydia, not shrinking from the one suicidal form of threat within her power. “Of course, if you like, you can play the mad woman,” said Grandcourt, with _sotto voce_ scorn. “It is not to be supposed that you will wait to think what good will come of it—or what you owe to me.”