“What idleness now claims your tongue?” said I, impatiently. “Was ever such nonsense uttered! And the wives should all turn ospreys, too, I take it, and haunt the upper air to watch their husbands?”
“No,” returned Peg, demurely reading the carpet, “no; a wife should never watch her husband. What should you think of her who, dwelling in a garden—a measureless garden of roses—went ever about with petticoats tucked up, stick in hand, questing for some serpent? Who is she, to be so daft as to refuse the fragrance of a thousand blossoms to find one serpent and be stung by it?” Peg crowed high and long, deeming herself a princess of chop-logic. “But a man should watch a woman,” she concluded; “the woman wants him to.”
“And why?” said I, becoming curious.
“Because she likes to feel herself tethered by his vigilance.”
“But why?” I insisted. “Is not freedom dear to a woman?”
“Yes, but love is more dear. See what she gains when she barters only a little freedom for a world of love.”
“I had not thought a woman set such store by jealousy—the green eye turned against herself.”
“Jealousy—a man's jealousy is but the counterpart of his love.” Peg lifted her clever head oracularly. “And, watch-dog, that reminds me”—here she admonished me with upraised finger—“you are jealous of me! Yes you are; you are jealous of my husband.”
“You are a confusing form of little girl!” I said, laughing in my turn; “and most confusing when you jest.”
“Yes; when I jest.” This in a way of funny dryness. “Especially, when I jest. Still, you are jealous; you watch me all the time. Do not look frightened; I do not object to jealousy.” Peg finished in a mirthful ripple.