"Mr. Eames," said Madalina raising herself on her sofa, "if you can not express yourself in language more suitable to the occasion and to the scene than that, I think that you had better—"
"Hold my tongue."
"Just so;—though I should not have chosen myself to use words so abruptly discourteous."
"What did I say;—jolly as a sandboy? There is nothing wrong in that. What I meant was, that I think that this world is a very good sort of world, and that a man can get along in it very well, if he minds his p's and q's."
"But suppose it's a woman?"
"Easier still."
"And suppose she does not mind her p's and q's?"
"Women always do."
"Do they? Your knowledge of women goes as far as that, does it? Tell me fairly;—do you think you know anything about women?" Madalina as she asked the question, looked full into his face, and shook her locks and smiled. When she shook her locks and smiled, there was a certain attraction about her of which John Eames was fully sensible. She could throw a special brightness into her eyes, which, though it probably betokened nothing truly beyond ill-natured mischief, seemed to convey a promise of wit and intellect.
"I don't mean to make any boast about it," said Johnny.