“I—I suppose a woman is always a cat! You never call a man a cat, or an old cat.”
“No, I’m a dog—the unlucky dog.”
“No, a lazy dog,” she corrected. “There are always puppies, and lap-dogs.”
“Do you infer that I am one of these?”
“Well, you are petted enough. You live in the lap of luxury—I believe you don’t even shave, or open your own letters.”
“What else?” he demanded shortly.
“You won’t take the trouble to, what’s called make love! You say to a girl, ‘Shall we get married?’ and the girl says, No.”
Dudley again turned his head, and looked at her steadily. Was she in earnest? Of course not! She was smiling. To her, everything was a joke; it was one of her silly habits imported from Ireland, and not yet abandoned.
Well, he was in no hurry; he did not wish to settle down at present. Joseline was amazingly improved—a handsome, amusing, much-admired girl, clever in her way; even Lady Mulgrave was reconciled to her.