butter, “I’m not all alone in my savageness this time.”
“Men are all brutes,” said Lettie, hotly, without looking up from her book.
“You can tame us,” said Leslie, in mighty good humour.
She did not reply. George began, in that deliberate voice that so annoyed Emily:
“It does make you mad, though, to touch the fur, and not be able to grab him”—he laughed quietly.
Emily moved off in disgust. Lettie opened her mouth sharply to speak, but remained silent.
“I don’t know,” said Leslie. “When it comes to killing it goes against the stomach.”
“If you can run,” said George, “you should be able to run to death. When your blood’s up, you don’t hang half way.”
“I think a man is horrible,” said Lettie, “who can tear the head off a little mite of a thing like a rabbit, after running it in torture over a field.”
“When he is nothing but a barbarian to begin with——” said Emily.
“If you began to run yourself—you’d be the same,” said George.
“Why, women are cruel enough,” said Leslie, with a glance at Lettie. “Yes,” he continued, “they’re cruel enough in their way”—another look, and a comical little smile.
“Well,” said George, “what’s the good finicking! If you feel like doing a thing—you’d better do it.”
“Unless you haven’t courage,” said Emily, bitingly.
