"Why should you call him that? On the contrary, there was something generous in his wish to bestow his name upon a woman situated as I was. (No, no, Fifine, you must not lick me. Kiss me if you will, but keep your little tongue in its proper place.) Few men would have done it, I fancy. At all events, it convinced me of the truth and sincerity of his affection for me." "If you saw so many admirable points in his character why did you let such a valuable chance of securing them go by?" he asks, bitterly. He is white with anger by this time. I see his emotion, but, being fiendishly inclined at the moment, know no remorse. "One does do a foolish thing now and again," I reply, calmly, curling Fifine's silky locks the wrong way, to her infinite disgust. "Afterwards, when it is too late, one repents." "Am I to understand you repent not having bound yourself for life to that unmitigated villain?" I burst out laughing. "Poor Sir Mark!" I cry. "A scoundrel! a villain! What next? He tried to do the best he could for me, and gets only abuse in return. Do I repent not having married him? Well, no. At that time I was not particularly in love with matrimony; I had no desire to form new ties. _Now_, indeed--I break off in pretended confusion.--- My head bends itself a little on one side. I gaze down consciously into Fifine's lustrous eyes. "Phyllis," says my husband, with suppressed indignation, "whatever you may really mean by your words, I must beg that for the future I may hear no more of it; I---" But here the horrible pain in my side comes back to me with its usual acute energy, and mischief fades from me. I push Fifine from my lap, and half rise. "If you are going to be tragical," I say, "I hope you will leave me. I care neither for Sir Mark Gore, nor any other man, as you ought to know. Oh, my side!" I gasp, pressing my hand to it, and becoming colorless. My breath and voice fail me. In a moment his kind arms are round me. My head falls helpless on his shoulder, as though I were a mere child (and indeed I am little more in his strong grasp, now sickness has reduced me). He carries me to a sofa, and does for me all that can be done, until the first unbearable anguish is past. Then, with his arm under my head, so as to raise me, he sits waiting in silent watchfulness until rest and ease return. "You're not rid of me yet," I whisper, with a faint mocking smile, as I notice the fear and misery in his face. "Don't look so woebegone." Suddenly he falls on his knees beside my couch, though still supporting me.