He could never have given (even if his really manly modesty had permitted it)
any vaguest vision of what he did when he saw that portent. He acted
as men do when a theatre catches fire--very differently from how they
would have conceived themselves as acting, whether for better or worse.
He had a faint memory of certain half-stifled explanations, that the heiress
was the one really paying guest, and she would go, and the bailiffs
(in consequence) would come; but after that he knew nothing of his own
conduct except by the protests it evoked.
"Leave me alone, Mr. Inglewood--leave me alone; that's not the way to help."
"But I can help you," said Arthur, with grinding certainty;
"I can, I can, I can..."
"Why, you said," cried the girl, "that you were much weaker than me."
"So I am weaker than you," said Arthur, in a voice that went
vibrating through everything, "but not just now."
"Let go my hands!" cried Diana. "I won't be bullied."
In one element he was much stronger than she--the matter of humour.
This leapt up in him suddenly, and he laughed, saying: "Well, you are mean.
You know quite well you'll bully me all the rest of my life.
You might allow a man the one minute of his life when he's allowed to bully.
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