“Yea, but not with a dagger; she would fight with her tongue—perhaps with her pen—and sting and wound, and perhaps pretty well slay her foe.”
“But this woman is outrageous!” cried Hilton. “Our English ladies are all that is soft and gentle.”
“Sometimes,” said Chumbley; “some of us get an ugly stab or two now and then.”
“Out upon you, slanderer!” cried Hilton, laughingly, as he paced up and down once more.
“If you don’t stop that irritating, wild beast’s cage-walk,” said Chumbley, “I’ll petition the Inche Maida to have you chained to a bamboo.”
“Pish!” cried Hilton, imitating his friend, and throwing himself down upon one of the divans.
“I thought the other day that I was stabbed to the heart by a pair of glittering eyes,” said Chumbley; “but being a regular pachyderm, the wound only just went through my skin, and I soon healed up.”
“How allegorical we are getting!” said Hilton, laughing.
“Yes,” replied Chumbley, coolly, “very. Then there was my friend Hilton: he did get a stab that pretty well touched his heart, and the wound smarts still.”
Hilton sat up, and glared at his friend.