"Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. What the editor had to say none of the three cared just then. “Nigel, don’t you understand. I consented to become Mrs. “Yes?” “You remember once, how we talked—at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living. He next twisted the heavy gyves round and round, and partly by main strength, partly by a dexterous and well-applied jerk, sapped asunder the central link by which they were attached to the padlock. It was impulsive and natural. “You cannot give me ultimatums. She was leaning over him and he smelled her like he had never smelled anyone before. Surely she could ignore him. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child.
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