“How am I to construe that?” asked Kate, crossing her two forefingers (“it matters very little to you”). “Does it mean that love is out of the question between you two, or that you would have him if Lucifer stood in your path?”
“Construe it as it best suits you,” replied Fanny, with the most provoking nonchalance.
“But ‘a stoop in the shoulders,’” persisted the tormenting Kate. “I don’t care to have a man’s face handsome, provided it is intelligent, but I do insist upon a fine form, correct morals, and a good disposition.”
Fanny laughed—“I suppose you think to wind your husband round your little finger, like a skein of silk.”
“With Cupid’s help,” replied Kate, with mock humility.
“Of course you will be quite perfect;—never, for instance, appear before your husband in curl papers, or slip-shod?” asked Fanny; “never make him eat bad pies or puddings?”
“That depends,” answered Kate, “if he is tractable—not; if not—why not?”
“You will wink at his cigars?”
“He might do worse.”