You think me a woman, I'm only a pig.
He is moist, and breathes like a porpoise; with cunning in place of a
brain, and the rest of him mere stomach. But he is good enough for
me."
She hoped this would shock the stranger and that now, perhaps, he
would go. It irritated her to hear him only laugh.
"No," he said, "you will not marry him."
"Who will stop me?" she cried angrily.
"Your Better Self."
His voice had a strange ring of authority, compelling her to turn and
look upon his face. Yes, it was true, the fancy that from the very
first had haunted her. She had met him, talked to him--in silent
country roads, in crowded city streets, where was it? And always in
talking with him her spirit had been lifted up: she had been--what he
had always thought her.
"There are those," continued the stranger (and for the first time she
saw that he was of a noble presence, that his gentle, child-like eyes
could also command), "whose Better Self lies slain by their own hand
and troubles them no more. But yours, my child, you have let grow too
strong; it will ever be your master. You must obey. Flee from it and
it will follow you; you cannot escape it. Insult it and it will
chastise you with burning shame, with stinging self-reproach from day
to day." The sternness faded from the beautiful face, the tenderness
crept back.
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