"Well, if our whole social fabric isn’t a joke," Di interrupted, "pray, what is it?" "I don’t belong to the social fabric. I’m an outsider." Again she feverishly interrupted. "Oh, you can’t escape. You are up on the block. Look your best, and try to bring a fancy price. We have always sold our women, and now we have taken to selling our men." For a moment he wondered if she, too, approved of the fortune hunt. "Are you in the Chichester Jones conspiracy, too?" he asked. "Certainly," the answer came, but with it a look that plainly contradicted the words. She was in wild spirits, he could see; he let her run on. "You are a monster of selfish obstinacy, Jim. Your inability to grasp your own best interests and ours—is a proof of a feeble intellect—and a wicked heart." Gayly he entered into her mood. "Well, Diana," he said, "I’m an amiable brute. If you insist upon it, perhaps—" "Good," she cut in quickly as she jumped up on the seat and clung to an overhanging bough. "Let me be the auctioneer; I’ll get you a good price." Blithely assuming the voice and manner of a professional auctioneer, she began: "Step up, ladies—step up, ladies. Please examine this first-class specimen of the British aristocracy. He is kind and gentle, sound in mind and limb; will travel well in double harness—has blue ribbons and medals, and a pedigree longer than your purses. He’s for sale; how much am I bid—" Jim, who laughingly followed her words, interrupted in mock seriousness: "One moment before you knock me down. Have you considered the existence of the American Peril? These Yankees are driving the English girls out of the home market. I believe in protection for the home product by an _ad valorem_ tax on the raw material and exclusion for the finished product—in the shape of widows. I’m a patriot. God bless our English commerce—homes, I mean." Jim’s burst of nonsense was finished by a "Hear, hear" from Diana. Then their laughter rang out merrily. Diana clung to the swaying branch; Jim, below her, like Henry, noticed the ethereal quality of her beauty that night. She put out her hands to him. "Please," she said, and he helped her down. Their light-heartedness seemed to desert them. Mechanically he kept her hand in his, held spellbound by her gracious charm. Diana withdrew her hand as she said, "Jim, you’re a boy and you’ll never grow up." Then, because she wished him to reassure her of his distaste for the proposed marriage, she said, "Sadie Jones is the chance of a lifetime and you’ll miss it." Jim only half heard her words. He was conscious of a strange dread of remaining longer alone with her. "How do you know I will?" he said. All her tender faith and belief in him was in her answer: "Oh, Jim, I know you." Did she though? Did he know himself? What was this wild new feeling of fear, of sweet, elusive pain? His words gave no sign of the tumult of his thoughts.