'
'Not on that account, Lesbia: every woman likes a man who stands up for
his own. It is only your invertebrate husband whose wife drifts into the
divorce court. I mean to keep and hold the prize I have won. When is it
to be, dearest--our wedding day?'
'Not for ages, I hope--some time next summer, at the earliest.'
'You would not be so cruel as to keep me waiting a year?'
'Why not?'
'You would not ask that if you loved me.'
'You are asking too much,' said Lesbia, with a flash of defiance. 'There
has been nothing said about love yet. You asked me to be your wife, and
I said yes--meaning that at some remote period such a thing might be.'
She knew that the man was her slave--slave to her beauty, slave to her
superior rank--and she was determined not to lessen the weight of his
chain by so much as a feather.
'Did not that promise imply something like love?' he asked, earnestly.
'Perhaps it implied a little gratitude for your devotion, which I have
neither courted nor encouraged a little respect for your talents, your
perseverance--a little admiration for your wonderful success in life.
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