"Louis--" she began again, breathlessly, and then let the words out in a
torrent. "Louis, I _know_ I've got to marry you. Do you understand that?
It's--it's inevitable. It was from the minute I met you. You'll never
understand that, not being a Kelt, though. I know it quite well. And I'm
afraid I'm going to shy at it. And, for my sake as well as yours, I've
not to shy. Louis, will you grab me tight?"
He stared at her, utterly at a loss. He did not begin to grasp what she
meant. To him she was just "fickle woman" always changing her mind. He
had, all his life, generalized about woman; he had never known a woman
who was not rather vapid, rather brainless; he had the same idea of
women as Professor Kraill had ventilated in his lectures--that they were
the vehicles of the race, living for the race but getting all the fun
they could out of the preliminary canter, since the race was a rather
strenuous, rather joyless thing for them. And it was in men they found
the fun. Yet here was Marcella, who was quite different from anything
feminine he had ever seen or imagined, suddenly appealing to him not to
let her be fickle. Immediately he felt very manly, very responsible.
Then he laughed.
"_Quis custodiet ipsos custodies?_" he said, looking into her eyes.
"Father often said that. What does it mean?"
"Who'll look after the looker-after?" he said, with a laugh.
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