“Like what?”
He threw a quick glance of exasperation at her.
“When I say a question, it is always with another question that you reply!”
“Well,” she said, “we were talking of the emperor, and now you say ‘why are women always like that?’ and I ask ‘like what?’”
He looked more exasperated than before.
“I have all finished with the emperor,” he said, as if outraged by her want of comprehension as to his meaning. “Is it likely that I will wish to talk of the emperor when on the nineteenth you sail from Genoa?”
She felt her eyes moistening afresh at this recurrence to her departure, and made no answer. He slashed along vigorously for two or three yards, cutting a wide swathe with his umbrella, and then his grievance appeared somewhat appeased, and he explained in a milder tone:
“I ask you why are women like that,—like that, that they never will like to be kissed?”
Rosina halted in astonishment.
“What is it now?” he asked, turning because he missed her. “Have I not yet made myself plain?”