''Oh, Maud,'' he says.
That is all he says. But in his face I see, at last, how much I want her.
For a moment we do nothing. Then he steps to me and takes my wrist. The paintbrush falls.
''Come quickly,'' he says. ''Come quickly, before she wakes.''
He takes me, stumbling, along the line of rushes. We walk as the water flows, about the bend of the river and the wall. When we stop, he puts his hands to my shoulders and holds me fast.
''Oh, Maud,'' he says again. ''Here I have been, supposing you gripped by a conscience, or some other weakness like that. But this—!''
I have turned my face from him, but feel him laugh. ''Don''t smile,'' I say, shuddering. ''Don''t laugh.''
''Laugh? You might be glad I don''t do worse. You''ll know—you''ll know, if anyone will!—the sports to which gentlemen''s appetites are said to be pricked, by matters like this. Thank heavens I''m not a gentleman so much as a rogue: we go by different codes. You may love and be damned, for all I care.—Don''t wriggle, Maud!'' I have tried to twist from his hands. He holds me tighter, then lets me lean from him a little, but grips my waist. ''You may love and be damned,'' he says again. ''But keep me from my money—keep us languishing here: put back our plot, our hopes, your own bright future—you shall not, no. Not now I know what trifling thing you have made us stay for. Now, let her wake up.—I promise you, it is as tiresome to me as to you, when you twist so!—Let her wake up