“I’ll show you some,” she said, rising and going out of the room. He felt he was nearer her. She returned, carrying a pile of great books.
“Jove—you’re pretty strong!” said he.
“You are charming in your compliment,” she said.
He glanced at her to see if she were mocking.
“That’s the highest you could say of me, isn’t it?” she insisted.
“Is it?” he asked, unwilling to compromise himself.
“For sure,” she answered—and then, laying the books on the table, “I know how a man will compliment me by the way he looks at me”—she kneeled before the fire. “Some look at my hair, some watch the rise and fall of my breathing, some look at my neck, and a few,—not you among them,—look me in the eyes for my thoughts. To you, I’m a fine specimen, strong! Pretty strong! You primitive man!”
He sat twisting his fingers; she was very contrary.
“Bring your chair up,” she said, sitting down at the table and opening a book. She talked to him of each picture, insisting on hearing his opinion. Sometimes he disagreed with her and would not be persuaded. At such times she was piqued.
“If,” said she, “an ancient Briton in his skins came and contradicted me as you do, wouldn’t you tell him not to make an ass of himself?”
“I don’t know,” said he.
“Then you ought to,” she replied. “You know nothing.”
“How is it you ask me then?” he said.
