Of course she knew that it had been refused as a
matter of caution. She was not angry with him because of his caution,
as she had expected him to be cautious. The barriers over which
she had to climb were no more than she had expected to find in her
way;--but they were so very high and so very difficult! Of course she
was aware that he would escape if he could. She was not angry with
him on that account. Anger could not have helped her. Indeed, she did
not price herself highly enough to make her feel that she would be
justified in being angry. It was natural enough that he shouldn't
want her. She knew herself to be a poor, thin, vapid, tawdry
creature, with nothing to recommend her to any man except a sort
of second-rate, provincial-town fashion which,--infatuated as she
was,--she attributed in a great degree to the thing she carried on
her head. She knew nothing. She could do nothing. She possessed
nothing. She was not angry with him because he so evidently wished to
avoid her. But she thought that if she could only be successful she
would be good and loving and obedient,--and that it was fair for her
at any rate to try. Each created animal must live and get its food
by the gifts which the Creator has given to it, let those gifts be
as poor as they may,--let them be even as distasteful as they may to
other members of the great created family. The rat, the toad, the
slug, the flea, must each live according to its appointed mode of
existence. Animals which are parasites by nature can only live by
attaching themselves to life that is strong. To Arabella Mr. Gibson
would be strong enough, and it seemed to her that if she could fix
herself permanently upon his strength, that would be her proper
mode of living. She was not angry with him because he resisted
the attempt, but she had nothing of conscience to tell her that
she should spare him as long as there remained to her a chance of
success. And should not her plea of excuse, her justification be
admitted? There are tormentors as to which no man argues that they
are iniquitous, though they be very troublesome. He either rids
himself of them, or suffers as quiescently as he may.

"We used to be such--great--friends," she said, still crying, "and I
am afraid you don't like me a bit now."

"Indeed I do;--I have always liked you. But--"

"But what? Do tell me what the but means. I will do anything that you
bid me."

Then it occurred to him that if, after such a promise, h