ok me in the eye and swear to purge your mind of that vile
thought, and never to admit another that dishonors me."

"O, I swear it. Bring me the Thirty-nine Articles and the Westminster
Catechism and the Ten Tables, and I'll subscribe to all of 'em. I'll
think anything you tell me to: I signed my soul away an hour ago." Here
I saw that I had gone too far, and she was really angry. She's right; I
must learn to check my confounded tongue, if I am to keep on any terms
with the Princess. So I changed my tune, just in time. "Don't go,
Clarice. Honestly, I beg your pardon; upon my soul, I do. Your word is
all the evidence I want of any fact under heaven, of course. Princess
dear, I've been fond of you since you were a baby, and it has grown with
your growth--it has, really. I'll prove it some day: you wait and see.
Forgive me this once, won't you? Don't speak, if you are tired, but just
give me your hand, as they did in the Old Testament, in token of
forgiveness."

She gave it. I am not good at descriptions, but a man might go barefoot
and fasting for a week, and be paid by touching such a hand as that. The
queer thing is that I've known Clarice for over twenty years--I told you
she had been in society for six--and practically lived with her most of
that time, and yet she grows more surprising every day. It seems to be
generally supposed that familiarity breeds contempt in such cases; that
sisters, and wives, and the like, get to be an old story to the men who
belong to them. Clarice is not that kind: possibly I am not. To be sure,
she is neither my wife nor any blood relation; but I don't see that that
makes any difference. They took out a patent for her up above, and
reserved all rights, with no power of duplication. She might care for me
a little more; but then I don't suppose I've ever given her any reason
to. I am well enough in my way, but I'm not such an original and
striking specimen of my 'sect' as she is of hers--not by a long shot.
She was exhausted now, and that is how I got a chance to put in all this
wisdom just here. I might talk to Mabel for a week, and it would produce
no effect: but a little thing upsets the Princess, her organization is
so delicate and sensitive. She is all alive and on fire, or else languid
and disdainful: she can't take life easily, as people of coarser grain
do, like me. Her brain weighs too much and works too hard; that uses her
up. I don't doubt she has a heart to match; but it has nev