'Packed in the box, sir, as I found it.' She spoke with more
humility now. The difference between them was greater than it had
been at the ball.

'Good,' he said. 'I must just dispose of it; and then away we go.'

He went back to the tree, Margery following at a little distance.
Bringing forth the box, he pulled out the dress as carelessly as if
it had been rags. But this was not all. He gathered a few dry
sticks, crushed the lovely garment into a loose billowy heap, threw
the gloves, fan, and shoes on the top, then struck a light and
ruthlessly set fire to the whole.

Margery was agonized. She ran forward; she implored and entreated.
'Please, sir--do spare it--do! My lovely dress--my-dear, dear
slippers--my fan--it is cruel! Don't burn them, please!'

'Nonsense. We shall have no further use for them if we live a
hundred years.'

'But spare a bit of it--one little piece, sir--a scrap of the lace--
one bow of the ribbon--the lovely fan--just something!'

But he was as immoveable as Rhadamanthus. 'No,' he said, with a
stern gaze of his aristocratic eye. 'It is of no use for you to
speak like that. The things are my property. I undertook to gratify
you in what you might desire because you had saved my life. To go to
a ball, you said. You might much more wisely have said anything
else, but no; you said, to go to a ball. Very well--I have taken you
to a ball. I have brought you back. The clothes were only the