"Do sit down," she added—with unnecessary emphasis in the "do."
There was nothing to be done but to resign myself; she drew up a chair quite close to mine and settled down in it as an army might settle down for a Trojan siege.
"Do tell me—I am dying to know—how did it happen and what do you think of us? You don't look very different from us; you remind me of Chairo, and he is thought very handsome"—her head and curls shook again and she giggled consciously—"very, very handsome!" She giggled still more and her eyes assumed a coy meaningfulness that increased my discomfort.
I have never been able to understand why this poor little woman—perfectly innocent of any real ability to harm—should have been able to cause me so much annoyance; but there was something in her glance that made me wish to throw things at her.
"And Lydia—isn't Lydia beautiful?" There was something caressing in her tone as she puckered up her lips and dwelt on the word "beautiful" that exasperated me again.
"What do you suppose she is going to do? Is she going to accept the mission or marry Chairo? She is a great flirt, you know; quite a terrible flirt! But I shouldn't talk of flirting!"—and she giggled again the same suggestive giggle. "We mustn't be hard on flirts, must we?"
This appeal to me, as though I were already particeps criminis, would have led me to protest, but she did not allow me the opportunity, for she continued:
"But she has not been fair to Chairo; a girl ought to know when to make up her mind"—she became very serious now—"I always knew where to stop; no man ever had the right to reproach me."
I at last could agree with her and I smiled approval. She seemed delighted.