"I'm not so sure of that," said Martin slowly; "he hasn't got character
enough."
Thyme raised her chin, and, looking at him through half-closed eyes,
said: "Well, I do think, of all the conceited persons I ever met you're
the worst."
Martin's nostril curled.
"Are you prepared," he said, "to put a bullet in the donkey, or are you
not?"
"I only see one donkey, and not a dying one!"
Martin stretched out his hand and gripped her arm below the elbow.
Retaining it luxuriously, he said: "Don't wander!"
Thyme tried to free her arm. "Let go!"
Martin was looking straight into her eyes. A flush had risen in his
cheeks.
Thyme, too, went the colour of the old-rose curtain behind which she
sat.
"Let go!"
"I won't! I'll make you know your mind. What do you mean to do? Are you
coming in a fit of sentiment, or do you mean business?"
Suddenly, half-hypnotised, the young girl ceased to struggle. Her face
had the strangest expression of submission and defiance--a sort of
pain, a sort of delight. So they sat full half a minute staring at each
other's eyes. Hearing a rustling sound, they looked, and saw Bianca
moving to the door. Cecilia, too, had risen.
"What is it, B.?"
Bianca, opening the door, went out. Cecilia followed swiftly, too late
to catch even a glimpse of her sister's face behind the veil.
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