“Had a row with Kate, eh?” he inquired.
“A row?” I said, endeavoring to put as humorous a face on it as possible. “General, I pulled a string, expecting warm water to flow, and instead I received a cold shower-bath.”
I fear I must have smiled somewhat sadly, for it was in a very kindly voice that the old gentleman replied:
“I know, mossoo; I know what it feels like. I remember my feelings when a certain lady gave me the congé, as you'd say, in '62—was it?—or '63. Long time ago now, anyhow, but I haven't forgotten it yet. Only time I ever screwed my courage up to the proposing point; found afterwards she'd been engaged to another man for two years. She might have told me, hang it!—but I haven't died of broken heart, mossoo. You'll get over it, never fear.”
“But it is not that she is engaged; it is not that she has repulsed me. She is your niece, General, but I fear her heart is of stone. She is a flirt, a—” In my heat I was getting carried away; I recalled myself in time, and added:
“Pardon; I forget myself, General.”
“I know, I know,” he replied. “I've felt the same about her myself, mossoo. She's a fine girl; good feelings and all the rest of it, but a little—er—unsatisfactory sometimes, I think. I've hoped for a little more myself now and then—a little—er—womanliness, and so on.”
“I cannot understand her,” I said. “I pictured her full of soul—and now!”
“I used to picture 'em full of soul, too,” said the General, “till I learned that a bright eye only meant it wasn't shut and that you could get as heavenly a smile by tickling 'em as any other way.”
“General!” I exclaimed. “Are you a cynic, then?”