“All exceeding clever,” said I, half made to laugh by the airy fashion wherein Peg would toss this off, “all exceeding clever. But it brings me with interest to my question, why, then, did you honor him with a dance?”
“For the same reason,” said Peg, with a look of funny malice, “that an Indian scalps his foe.”
“Now what should that mean?”
“Wait and see, oh watch-dog!”
It was a bit later when Peg was again by my side.
“Do you know why I am back with you?” she asked. “Well, aside from the profound pleasure of your company, the more profound by contrast with that of those vapid ones”—here she would include the ball room males with a sweep of her round arm—“I thought I would scalp my enemy before your eyes. You have a violent nature, watch-dog, and I reflected how the exhibition might bring you joy. Since you do not dance, your time must lie on your hands like iron; I would do somewhat to lighten it.”
Before I could ask Peg to unravel the intent of her long speech, Pigeon-breast was pushing valourously our way.
“He comes for a second dance,” said Peg. “See, his name is next on my card.”
“And call you that scalping?” cried I. “At that rate, every man in the room will compete for your cruelty! Scalping, say you! I wish for the simple humor of it, a Seminole might hear you.”
The truth was I had fallen into a dudgeon with Peg for her notion of taking a trophy; she would confer heaven on this Pigeon-breast and call it “scalping!”