"Why not after?"
"Dear Mr. Askew, a bachelor selects his own friends, a wife chooses those of her husband. Meantime, you are a nice boy, if somewhat fickle, and I like you sufficiently to let you go. When does this ship of yours go south?"
"Schooner, Lady Jim--schooner-yacht; two hundred tons Lloyd's measurement and----"
"You explained that before."
"Did I? Yes, of course. Well, she is a beauty."
"Ah! The same term was applied to me once and by a man who said that he would love me for ever."
"I don't believe I was ever so crude," retorted Askew, bluntly; "you don't tell a lady that she is a beauty, though you might say it to a shopgirl."
"Really! I don't know any people of that class. You do, apparently."
The young man grew red and wriggled like a speared eel, thinking how very like a woman she was. She did not want him, and she did want him; she told him to go, and wished him to stop; she pardoned his fickleness, yet kept it in mind. "Ah, you bundle of contradictions!"
"Why not say a woman? One word explains your three."