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"Yes, I suppose so," replies Mr. Rodney, reluctantly. "But he don't look like it. Hang it, you know," exclaims he, vehemently, "one can stand a good deal, but to have a fellow who wears carbuncle rings, and speaks of his mother as the 'old girl,' call himself your cousin, is more than flesh and blood can put up with: it's—it's worse than the lawsuit." He comes to her and looks over her shoulder at the paper she holds. In an ugly unformed hand the following figures and words are written upon it,— "No," said Kŭt-o-yĭs´. "You are saying what is not true, and I am going to kill you now.".
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There is both dignity and tenderness in her tone. She gazes at him earnestly for a moment, and then suddenly slips one arm round his neck. They are the Carsons, mustered in force, and, if anything, a trifle more noisy and oppressive than usual. "Why, of course; of course. One can see that at a glance. And if it were otherwise the whole story would be ruined,—would instantly become tame and commonplace,—would be, indeed," says Lady Lilias, with a massive wave of her large white hand, "I regret to say, an occurrence of everyday life. The singular beauty that now attaches to it would disappear. It is the fact that his passion was unrequited, unacknowledged, and that yet he was content to sacrifice his life for it, that creates its charm." "It is illiterate writing, certainly; and the whole concern dilapidated to the last degree," goes on Rodney, still regarding the soiled paper with curiosity mingled with aversion. "Any objection to my putting it in the fire?".
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