"Don't be foolish, woman! D'you think I'm ----? There, 'tisn't a case for talk that I can see. The thing be done and can't be undone. I'd have overlooked it, so like as not, if you'd made a clean breast of the truth when I offered for you; but to let me go on blind--I can't forgive that." Perceiving what had hurt him, Cora set herself to lessen the sting as much as possible; but she failed. They talked to no purpose for an hour, while she used every argument that occurred to her, and he opposed to her swift mind and subtle reasoning a blank, impassive wall of sulky anger and wounded pride. It began to grow dark before the conclusion came, and they had walked half-way back to Shaugh. At the top of the hill he left her, and the battle ended in wrath on both sides and a parting irrevocable. Her failure it was that made Cora lose her temper, and when she did so, he, thankful for the excuse, spoke harshly, and absolved his own uneasy spirit for so doing. The final scene was brief, and the woman, wearied in mind and body with her efforts to propitiate him, drew it down upon them. "Why don't you speak out like a man, then?" she said at last. "Why d'you keep growling in your throat, like a brute, and not answering my questions? 'Tis because you can't answer them in right and justice. But one word you've got to find a tongue to, though well you may be shamed to do it. It shan't be said I've thrown you over, if that's the cowardly thing you're playing up for. I promised to marry you, and I would marry you; but you don't want to marry me, it seems, and you've pitched on this paltry thing to get out of it." "'Paltry thing'! You're shameless." "Yes, it is paltry; and everybody would say so; and you'll hear what decent people think of you pretty soon if you throw me over, I can tell you. How can a child help its own father, or see whether its parents be properly married? You're cruel and mad both." "We'll see, then," he answered. "Since you're bent on hearing me speak, I will. And don't pretend as I'm growling and you're not hearing. I'll tell you what I mean, and my words shall be as clear as my mind is about it. I won't marry you now, and I wouldn't if you was all you ought to be. I've had a taste of your tongue this evening that's opened my mind a good bit to what you are. You've shown me a lot more about yourself than you think for. And if I did growl, like a brute, my ears was open and my wits was wide awake, like a man. And I won't marry you, and I've a perfect right not to do so after this."