"I gathered that," I replied, "from your indifference."
She answered nothing, but industriously stroked the mane of her horse.
"Now say 'owl,'" I added.
She began to laugh, then checked herself and looked at me with the chilliest stare.
"And if I did say 'owl,'" she asked in a puzzled simplicity, "would it rain?"
I began to wish that I had not spoken.
"Well?" she insisted, "what if I did say 'owl'?"
"I should say 'Robin Redbreast,'" I replied weakly.
"And a very delicate piece of wit, to be sure, Mr. Clavering," says she with her chin in the air. "You have learnt the soldier's forwardness of tongue. Let me pray you have learnt his——" And then, thinking, I suppose, from my demeanour that I was sufficiently abashed, she broke off of a sudden. "I would that I were a man," she cried, "and could swing a sword!"
She looked towards the little army which defiled between the fields, with the sun glinting upon musket and scabbard, and brought her clenched fist down upon the pommel of her saddle.