THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
"I think I should like," said poor Milly after an instant, "to die here."
Which made him, precisely, laugh. That was what she wanted—when a person did care: it was the pleasant human way, without depths of darkness. "Oh, it's not good enough for that! That requires picking. But can't you keep it? It is, you know, the sort of place to see you in; you carry out the note, fill it, people it, quite by yourself, and you might do much worse—I mean for your friends—than show yourself here a while, three or four months, every year. But it's not my notion for the rest of the time. One has quite other uses for you."
"What sort of a use for me is it," she smilingly inquired, "to kill me?"
"Do you mean we should kill you in England?"
"Well, I've seen you, and I'm afraid. You're too much for me—too many. England bristles with questions. This is more, as you say there, my form."
"Oho, oho!"—he laughed again as if to humour her. "Can't you then buy it—for a price? Depend upon it that they'll treat, for money. That is, for money enough."
"I've exactly," she said, "been wondering if they won't. I think I shall try. But if I get it I shall cling to it." They were talking sincerely. "It will be my life—paid for as that. It will become my great gilded shell; so that those who wish to find me must come and hunt me up."
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