Amy did not believe in being too prodigal in this direction. “Quarrels with a fiance,” as she put it in one of her witty sallies to her intimate friends, of whom she had many, for she was considered by a large circle to be the Queen of Haverstock Hill, “quarrels with a fiance, though frequently tonic and diverting, should never be indulged in for wanton pleasure. They are too useful for that, and will be found just as thrilling if saved up till a time when, in the warmth of reconciliation, some important concession is to be obtained.”

Amy therefore contented herself with being firm, and with sometimes laughing at Emily, and even this she confined to two main occasions, of which the first was when she laughed at her for being a chimp, and the second was when she laughed at her for behaving like a human.

So this time she said no more, and raised no objection when Mr. Fatigay poured out a milky cup of tea for the half-frozen creature, and bade her bring her little stool to the hearthrug, that she might toast herself before the fire. It had been in Amy’s mind to dismiss poor Emily to the solitude of her fireless little garret, but now watching her settle humbly into her place, her ingenious jealousy suggested a more satisfactory way of chastising her impudence, which was by allowing her to remain in the room while she continued her conversation with Mr. Fatigay.

“Come, love,” she said softly, stretching herself upon the sofa with a voluptuous grace, modeled on that of Goya’s Maja (clothed). “Come and sit here on the pouf, and go on telling me what you did, and thought, and felt in Africa.”

“Africa?” said Mr. Fatigay, with a touch of that conversational elephantiasis which would surely be listed among the commoner tropical diseases. “Africa? Why, I may have done things there, but as for thinking and feeling — how could I think or feel in Africa when my mind and heart were here with you in England?”

And with a tender leer he possessed himself of his lady’s hand.

“No. Tell me,” she said, in a velvety purr.

“What I thought!” burst out Mr. Fatigay. “What I felt on those long hot nights! Ah, someday I’ll tell you. Someday I’ll make you understand.”

“Tell me now,” murmured Amy, who had an infinite capacity for conversation of this kind.

But, alas, Mr. Fatigay, whose feelings had hurried him beyond the limits of his verbal expressiveness, had passed his arm about her waist, and seemed eager to carry out the second of his projects.

“Now! Now! Remember your promise,” said she, feeling well pleased that the chimp should witness this display of ardor, but in no way inclined to round it off by any considerable response. “Sit up properly and talk.”

“Oh, Amy!” cried the poor fellow, who had been set back in this manner over a score of times since he had come to Stotfield. “Can’t you see I’m dying for you? Don’t think I am being too physical, dear. I wouldn’t, for I know you hate it. But the fact is — after all, we are grown up, aren’t we? I’ve lived so long out there with only your image that when I see you in the . . . in reality, I don’t know what to do. Can’t we be married at once, darling — do say ‘yes’ — instead of waiting so long?”

As the tormented water sinks into a momentary quiescence when the cold egg is cast in, so Emily’s seething heart subsided into a hot stillness at these words, that she might better catch the answer. “Yet how,” thought she, “can anything but assent be given to such a plea, and from such a man?”

“Oh, Alfred!” said Amy, in tones more of sorrow than of anger. “You promised not to pester me till I myself felt ready. I thought you understood how necessary it is to me to be just myself for a little longer. Besides,” she went on, to punish him for having forced her to show a reluctance which she could neither overcome nor bring herself to acknowledge, “besides, it’s so long since I’ve seen you, that you can hardly expect me to be quite sure of my feelings till we’ve been properly engaged for a few months. It wouldn’t be fair to you to let you tie yourself up with someone who wasn’t quite sure of herself.

“And you ought to have time,” she added, “to think over your own feelings. These are your first weeks in England, and you’ve not seen a white woman for years. Can you be sure that this, joining up with our old feeling for one another, is not making you think that you feel what, perhaps, after all, you don’t?”

All this was perfectly reasonable, and even benevolent, in its thoughtfulness for Mr. Fatigay’s welfare, nor could any objection be raised to it except, perhaps, by those churlish fellows who are beginning to cry out that women, who have long ago broken in such emotional spontaneities as tears and frowns and smiles to their own use, are now attempting the same with sweet reason, which, if it makes a good master, is a confoundedly bad servant, though an obedient one.