to propose it. She had come to Mr. Wilding in the vague hope that he
himself would choose the heroic part. And he, to punish for her scorn
of him this woman whom he loved to hating-point, was resolved that she
herself must beg it of him. Whether, having so far compelled her, he
would grant her prayer or not was something he could not just then
himself have told you. She bowed her head in silence, and Wilding,
that faint smile, half friendliness, half mockery, hovering ever on his
lips, turned aside and moved softly towards the window. Her eyes,
veiled behind the long lashes of their drooping lids, followed him
furtively. She felt that she hated him in very truth. She marked the
upright elegance of his figure, the easy grace of his movements, the
fine aristocratic mould of the aquiline face, which she beheld in
profile; and she hated him the more for these outward favours that must
commend him to no lack of women. He was too masterful. He made her
realize too keenly her own weakness and that of Richard. She felt that
just now he controlled the vice that held her fast - her affection for
her brother. And because of that she hated him the more. "You see,
Mistress Westmacott," said he, his shoulder to her, his tone sweet to
the point of sadness, "that there is nothing else." She stood, her eyes
following the pattern of the parquetry, her foot unconsciously tracing
it; her courage ebbed, and she had no answer for him. After a pause
he spoke again, still without turning. "If that was not enough to suit
your ends" - and though he spoke in a tone of ever-increasing sadness,
there glinted through it the faintest ray of mockery - "I marvel you
should have come to Zoyland - to compromise yourself to so little
purpose.

She raised a startled face. "Com ... compromise myself?" she echoed.
"Oh!" It was a cry of indignation.