"But I shan't take any--so you needn't
be afraid."
"Afraid!" he said, still holding her. "But you are to take it.
Understand? It's my wish."
She blew the smoke at him, delicately, through pursed lips. "Good
my lord, I don't want it. Couldn't spend it if I had it. So now!"
"Then what is it I am to buy?" he said.
Lightly she answered him. "Oh, you will only do the paying part.
I shall do the choosing--and the bargaining, if necessary."
"Well, what is it?" Still he held her, and there was something of
insistence, something of possession, in his hold.
Possibly she had never before seemed more desirable to him--or more
elusive. For she was beginning to realize and to wield her power.
Again she took a whiff from her cigarette, and wafted it at him
through laughing lips.
"I want some wool--good wool--and a lot of it, to knit some
socks--for you. Your present things are disgraceful."
His look changed a little. His eyes shone through the veil of
smoke she threw between them, "I can buy ready-made socks. I'm not
going to let you make them--or mend them."
Sylvia's red lips expressed scorn. "Ready-made rubbish! No, sir.
With your permission I prefer to make. Then perhaps I shall have
less mending to do."
He was drawing her to him and she did not actively resist, though
there was no surrender in her attitude.
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