“Do you think for a moment that that lout would have sprung on me as he did if it hadn’t been for you? You know better, Janet. I owe it to you, my dear, that I was beaten flat like a pancake, and had my head dashed against the stones, as they did, you know, in the psalm. No, Janet; be quiet and listen to me. I’ve paid dear for one bit of an interview, and you ought to give me some recompense. I’ve lain upon my back all these many days for you, and it’s for you that I grin at that fellow, instead of taking him by the throat!” “That does me no good,” said Janet, panting with excitement and alarm. “Let me go, please. I would rather die than be found talking to you here. Take him by the throat if you please. What is that to me?” “To save you from trouble,” said the other. “Don’t you think I have felt how unpleasant it would be to have your name coming out? That is why I have let him off, for that reason and no other. Come, talk to me a moment, I deserve it. Nobody will hear us; Gussy is out, and the mother shut up in her room. I’m very forlorn in this house, which I had better leave, I think, at once; I’m well enough, I suppose, to do so now----” “Don’t you want to leave it? Shall you not be glad to get away?” cried Janet, under her breath. “Glad to get away! when you are here, you little witch. Do you think it has been pleasant to go on all the time purred over by the others, and never getting a word with you.” “You will not,” said Janet, with perhaps a certain revengeful pleasure, “be purred over by the others any more.” “You think so?” he said. “Don’t you be too sure. If you disdain me, and refuse to hear me, there is no telling, they may purr again.” “One way or other,” said Janet, “it has nothing to do with me.” “Why do you say so? Are you going to be sent away?” “Sent away!” Janet breathed forth the words as in a gale of indignation. “Nobody,” she cried, “except myself, shall send me away.” “Well,” he said, “and yourself will not, I hope? It would be a changed house if you were gone. All the spirit and the understanding and the mischief--don’t be angry, Janet; there is nothing so enchanting as mischief, and you know you are full of it--would be gone. I doubt if I should ever come back to the place again.” “Mr. Meredith,” said Janet, “you have no right to speak to me so. It is unpardonable in a man. Who is to believe you? Miss Harwood, whom I believe you are engaged to all this time--or me, whom you venture to take hold of and--talk to, when you think nobody sees? Oh, it is quite unpardonable, Mr. Meredith! Is it her or is it me whom you want to please? You ought to know.” “That sounds very like asking me my intentions,” he said, with a laugh, “as the father does in novels, or sometimes the mother. But never, so far as I recollect, the young lady herself.”