The light of battle was in her eye. It is hardly correct to speak of their crossing swords. The weapons they used were cudgels, in the use of which they were very expert.
Miss Burden was not a little shocked and affrighted. But she had witnessed so many exhibitions of a similar character between these combatants, who fully enjoyed a rough and tumble whenever they met, that I am by no means sure that the gentlewoman’s fear was not in the nature of a pleasant emotion. It seems to be right and proper that a gentlewoman shall derive a legitimate pride from being shocked and affrighted. At least it used to be so in that bright and glad heyday of decorum before some person unknown invented a hockey stick to beat out the brains of female sensibility.
It was not until they were drinking coffee in the seclusion of her ladyship’s boudoir that peace was restored between the combatants. They had both appeared to advantage, for they had had long practice in all kinds of verbal warfare. Cheriton’s phrases, by long association with the great world, were as direct as possible. He called a spade a spade, but his manner of so doing was extremely charming. Miss Burden thought his most incisive speeches were full of melody. As for Caroline Crewkerne, she was the sharpest-tongued old woman in London. And the least scrupulous, said the very considerable body who had been flayed by it.
Peace restored, the old lady made an abrupt suggestion.
“Cheriton,” said she, “it has occurred to me that it is time you settled down. You ought to marry.”
“Cherchez la femme,” said Cheriton, with a lightness of tone that ill became him.
“If you will place the matter in my hands,” said Caroline Crewkerne, “I shall be happy to do what I can for you.”
“I am overwhelmed.”
“Don’t be a coxcomb, Cheriton,” said Caroline, sharply. “Let us take a broad view of the subject and let us place it on a matter-of-fact basis. I repeat, in my opinion you ought to marry.”
“Pourquoi?”