"Then let them fight it out, and let the strongest win." "If I only knew which _was_ the strongest." "You'll know some day. In the long run, you see, the strongest is bound to win." "Not necessarily. There might be a number of little ones that all together would be stronger still." "Oh, kill off the little beggars one at a time--go for them, throttle them, wring their necks, jump on them; and if they wriggle, _stamp_!" "You can't jump on your own shadow. You can't stamp on them if they're _you_." He groaned. Miss Tancred was getting too subtle; it was like sitting in the desert and playing at metaphysics with the Sphinx. He had had about enough of it. He rose, stretching his long limbs, and the action suggested the hideous tension of his intellect. "You must let yourself go, Miss Tancred--let yourself go!" And he laughed at his own vision of Miss Tancred; Miss Tancred insurgent, Miss Tancred flamboyant, Miss Tancred voluptuous, volatile, victorious! And then a thought struck him. He turned and saw Miss Tancred still sitting motionless, nursing her knees; her pure inflexible profile glimmered against the dusk. VI Durant had an idea, or rather two ideas, one purely comic, the other comic or tragic, according to the way you took it. He first of all discovered that the Colonel was laying siege to the heart of Mrs. Fazakerly, and at the same time conducting his campaign with an admirable discretion. There never was a little Colonel of militia so anxious to avoid committing himself. Not that the event could be considered doubtful for a moment. Measuring all risks, it was in the highest degree incredible that he would be called upon to suffer the indignity of repulse.