"Oh, don't go in," pleaded Hallett.
"It's too hot inside," Elsie went on, speaking to her brother-in-law. "Let us stop here and be comfortable."
"Well, you are"—Lord Horace began to protest, but was called off by his wife.
"What are you tired of?" asked Hallett, abruptly, as he seated himself on the edge of the verandah, almost at Elsie's feet.
"Oh, I don't know. Tired of people—people who—who do everything from personal motives, tired of stupid speeches, and compliments, and all that."
"Tired of being made love to," he said bitterly —"that's what you mean—of being made love to by men you don't care for."
"Well," said Elsie quietly stroking her dress, "a good many men do make love to me, you know, and I can't say that they are profoundly interesting as a body."
"And there are no exceptions—not even one?" he exclaimed. "Does no one interest you?"
Elsie looked up swiftly, and went on stroking her dress again. "I should like to be made love to by some man who didn't care in the least what I thought of him—a man who would go on his own way straight as a die—not turning as you all do, to right or left, at a woman's beck—a man with a purpose and a destiny—I don't think I should mind whether it was a good purpose or a bad one—a magnificent destiny or a terrible one—only it must not be small or mean! Oh, a man who would follow his star at all costs. That is the man I should like to know."
"Go on," said Hallett. "Tell me more of what you would like in the man who made love to you."
"He must never pay me a compliment," said Elsie. "He must not want to do what I wish. He must make me do what he wishes. He must be my master."
"Oh," exclaimed Hallett, impatiently, "that is a Jane Eyre-ish idea. No man who truly loves a woman can be her master. To love is to be a slave."
"How do you know that?"
