“Like leaves of crimson tulips met,”
by no means offends us as it would in a man; in whom we should attribute it to low cunning or mean cowardice. Indeed, the exquisite look of arch impudence with which a delicately chiselled marble-ine Celestial tells you a most palpable falsehood is maddening, perfectly beautiful, almost sublime. The cool assurance and sharp raillery with which she persists after detection! the assumption of injured innocence! the impudent look of defiance! By Jove! truly
“The dear creatures lie with such a grace,
There’s nothing so becoming to the face.”
And then when they are beaten from their last defence, and can resist no longer, when they are compelled to surrender and beg pardon, they do it as if they were forgiving you; and make you feel almost as if you were being forgiven, as if you, not she, had all the while been erring: at all events you feel very like a fool, though very happy; and so a few tears, and a few (or not a few) kisses set all to rights,
“And so we make it up;
And then—and then—and then—sit down and sup.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” roars Mr. A. flinging down the book—which he has been reading aloud to his wife—in a paroxysm of laughter.
“It’s abominable!” exclaims Mrs. A., in high indignation, “and I wonder, Mr. A. you ain’t ashamed to read it.”
Mr. A. resumes the book, and his lady continues to listen with great interest, though apparently wholly absorbed by her crochet-work.