ridiculous weapon, now, and let’s go back and talk it over.”
“I will go back,” said I, “carrying your head with me. We will see how charmingly it can discourse when it lies in the basket at her door.”
“Come,” said he, persuasively, “I think better of you than to suppose that you try this sort of thing as a joke. But even the vagaries of a fever-crazed lunatic come some time to a limit. What is this talk about heads and baskets? Get yourself together and throw away that absurd cane-chopper. What would Miss Greene think of you?” he ended, with the silky cajolery that one would use toward a fretful child.
“Listen,” said I. “At last you have struck upon the right note. What would she think of me? Listen,” I repeated.
“There are women,” I said, “who look upon horsehair sofas and currant wine as dross. To them even the calculated modulation of your well-trimmed talk sounds like the dropping of rotten plums from a tree in the night. They are the maidens who walk back and forth in the villages, scorning the emptiness of the baskets at the doors of the young men who would win them.
