"But, Chris, I want you to understand how sorry I am that I was so vile to you. I really was vile, wasn't I?" Elisabeth was the type of woman for whom the confessional will always have its fascinations. "You were distinctly down on me, I must confess; but you needn't worry about that now." "And you quite forgive me?" "As I said before, I've nothing to forgive. You were perfectly right to be annoyed with a man who appeared to be so careless and inconsiderate; but I'm glad you've found out that I wasn't quite as selfish as you thought." Elisabeth stroked his coat sleeve affectionately. "You are not selfish at all, Chris; you're simply the nicest, thoughtfullest, most unselfish person in the world; and I'm utterly wretched because I was so unkind to you." "Don't be wretched, there's a dear! Your wretchedness is the one thing I can't and won't stand; so please leave off at once." To Christopher remorse for wrong done would always be an agony; he had yet to learn that to some temperaments, whereof Elisabeth's was one, it partook of the nature of a luxury--the sort of luxury which tempts one to pay half a guinea to be allowed to swell up one's eyes and redden one's nose over imaginary woes in a London theatre. "Did you mind very much when I was so cross?" Elisabeth asked thoughtfully. Christopher was torn between a loyal wish to do homage to his idol and a laudable desire to save that idol pain. "Of course I minded pretty considerably; but why bother about that now?" "Because it interests me immensely. I often think that your only fault is that you don't mind things enough; and so, naturally, I want to find out how great your minding capacity is." "I see. Your powers of scientific research are indeed remarkable; but did it never strike you that even vivisection might be carried too far--too far for the comfort of the vivisected, I mean; not for the enjoyment of the vivisector?" "It is awfully good for people to feel things," persisted Elisabeth. "Is it? Well, I suppose it is good--in fact, necessary--for some poor beggars to have their arms or legs cut off; but you can't expect me to be consumed with envy of the same?" "Please tell me how much you minded," Elisabeth coaxed. "I can't tell you; and I wouldn't if I could. If I were a rabbit that had been cut into living pieces to satisfy the scientific yearnings of a learned professor, do you think I would leave behind me--for my executors to publish and make large fortunes thereby--confidential letters and private diaries accurately describing all the tortures I had endured, for the recreation of the reading public in general and the said professor in particular? Not I." "I should. I should leave a full, true, and particular account of all that I had suffered, and exactly how much it hurt. It would interest the professor most tremendously." Christopher shook his head. "Oh, dear! no; it wouldn't." "Why not?"