“Will this be so hard a matter? Must you strive so extremely?” she questioned, and glanced at him over her shoulder, languorous-eyed, vivid lips up-curving, conscious of and assured in her beauty; and, reading this look, he laughed a little bitterly. “O Coquetry!” he exclaimed, “that turn o’ the neck and shoulder, that languishing droop o’ the eyes become you vastly.... Egad, I protest you are monstrous bewitching so, my Lady Herminia!” At this she flushed angrily and knit black brows at him. “Faith, sir,” she retorted, “by your vast knowledge o’ feminine arts I perceive you to be merely Sir John Dering!” “Who is extreme hungry!” he added. “And there doth await him a Sir Loin o’ beef—hot! So, shall we go on, my lady?” On they went accordingly, my lady with head proudly averted, and yet he knew her eyes were tearful, but, noting how passionately her white hand clenched itself, knew these for tears of anger only. “Alas,” sighed he at last, “to-day poor John Derwent’s wooing doth not prosper, it seems. Love hath fled awhile on soaring pinions.” “I never hated you more!” said she in low, steady voice. “Wouldst break thy John’s heart, girl?” To this she deigned no answer; but when he had repeated the question three or four times with as many different modulations, she broke out angrily: “Aye, I would—I would, if ever I find it!” “Couldst be so cruel, child?” he questioned lightly; and then, more seriously, “Could you stoop to such baseness? I wonder!” “Nay,” she retorted bitterly, “’twere impossible! You have no heart ... never did have ... never will!” “And yet it beats for thee, Rose. Reach me thy hand and feel.” “Then ’tis the heart of a stock-fish!” she cried. “Cold, cold—infinitely cold and sluggish!” “Stock-fish!” he repeated mournfully—“O ye gods—a stock-fish! Alas, sweet soul, what strange mistake is here? A stock-fish. I that am by nature so ardent yet so humble, of impulses so kindly, of passions so fiery, of sentiments so very infinite tender! I that am thy predestined mate, thy man——” “Aye, thou,” she cried fiercely—“thou that art no more than a fine-gentlemanly thing as humble as Lucifer, as kindly as an east wind, as fiery as a lump of lead, as tender as that savage monster who nigh broke my wrists for me!” “Gad’s my life, child,” said he, noting her flashing eyes and glowing cheek, “thy so splendid theme endows thee with new splendour, thou handsome wench! Though thou dost sadly embarrass thy modest John——” “Would I might, indeed!” “But ’tis very well thou shouldst justly appreciate me as well before as after marriage! And now, for thy poor, pretty wrists——” “Why are you here, Sir John, wasting yourself in the country?” she demanded mockingly. “Your true place is that same heartless, selfish world o’ modish idleness whence you came! What do you here among these kindly Sussex folk who, at the least, live to some purpose? Why are you here, you who live for no purpose but yourself?”