"My dear," she said, in her lightest tone, "it is a wise resolve. Only the young should marry. When I am as old as you I shall enter a convent, and repent, and become good. Till then, I must continue to be wicked. How long do you give me to decide between the two things you have offered me?" "What time do you require?" "To-day is Wednesday. Two days--that will be Friday. But Friday is such an unlucky day, and I am so unfortunate! On Saturday--shall it be Saturday? Will you give me till then? Have pity on me! You will not refuse me so short a time as three days, in which I am to decide my fate?" The words, written down, bear an entirely different construction from that in which she employed them. Her voice was a voice of mockery, and upon her lips was the same pleasant smile with which, I have no doubt, she would have killed me where I stood had it been in her power. "Let it be Saturday," I said. "I will come then," she said sweetly, "and see once more the gentleman I swore to love, honour, and obey. Thank you, so much! Will you not kiss me, even now? Will you not as much as shake hands with me? Cruel! If I had known you better, when you begged me to be your wife, I should have hesitated; I should not have trusted my future to the hands of such a man. I had my doubts; I said, 'He is too old, he cannot understand a young heart like mine.' Ah, if I had listened to the voice of prudence! But when was a woman in love prudent? I may arrange my hair at your looking glass, may I not? I am your wife, although you hate me. Thank you once more. What a pretty glass--and what a sweet room! I could live here with you for ever, if you loved and cared to have me. But it can never be, can it? You have found me out. O, how dreadful it is to be found out! Worse for a woman than for a man--a thousand, thousand times worse! My hair has grown longer since I last saw you--don't you think so? And thicker. Feel it. No? How miserable you are! Did you ever really love me, I wonder? If I were a man, and loved a woman as pretty as I am--you can't deny that I _am_ pretty; when I walk through the streets with my veil up, nine men out of ten stop and turn to look at me; that's why I wear my veil down. A married woman! They should be ashamed of themselves. But what can a pretty woman do? What was I saying? O, I remember. If I were a man, and loved a woman as good-looking as I am, I would go through fire and water for her. I would, indeed! What a woman wants is love, devotion--perfect devotion--and liberty to do whatever she likes. That is all. Else what does a woman marry for? To be a slave? You say you will never marry again. Nor will I--you shall not outdo me in generosity. I may love, but I will never marry--never, never! You men are either fools or something worse--and women, too, are fools when they sell themselves for money, as I did, and tie themselves to creatures who can't appreciate them. I don't mean you, my dear. No--you are too soft,