That fine afternoon--April budding into May--this lady listened to Ingram
in the garden. Of all sounds in the world the sweetest music for her ear
was made by a man's voice embroidering the theme--_"You are lovely, you are
cruel, I die."_ Ingram's descant on the golden phrase was querulous, after
his manner. He took his lover's smarts, as one must suppose them, hardly.
As thus: _"You are lovely_--but what's that to me, if I can't touch you?
You sting my eyes, you inflame, you wound--or I think you do; here am I,
tied by the leg to a dead woman--for dead to me she is, the she-cat
Sanchia--looking at you because I can't help myself. You are soft and lax,
you purr when I stroke you; I could make a pet of you. Was ever a man of
property and station in such a case?"
_"You are cruel_--because, though I could put out my hand and take you,
yet you expect me to do it. That's all over, for me. I've done that sort
of thing--Sanchia knows. Now I must trouble you to advance. I'm sick of
life on these terms: you could make life worth living. I must really
trouble you: sorry to seem languid, but I _am_ languid. You, with your
fine sensibilities, ought to be the first to feel that; but no: you wait,
looking exquisite, with eyes like blue-black water, and a mouth, a mouth
like a flower.
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