"Because, should I ever marry—a remote contingency, and most improbable—I am sufficiently self-willed to prefer to exert my own choice in the matter; moreover, this lady is a celebrated toast, and it would be most repugnant to me that my wife's name should ever have been bandied from mouth to mouth, and hiccoughed out over slopping wineglasses—"
The pen slipped from Charmian's fingers to the floor, and before I could pick it up she had forestalled me, so that when she raised her head she was flushed with stooping.
"Have you ever seen this lady, Peter?"
"Never, but I have heard of her—who has not?"
"What have you heard?"
"That she galloped her horse up and down the steps of St. Paul's
Cathedral, for one thing."
"What more?"
"That she is proud, and passionate, and sudden of temper—in a word, a virago!"
"Virago!" said Charmian, flinging up her head.
"Virago!" I nodded, "though she is handsome, I understand—in a strapping way—and I have it on very excellent authority that she is a black-browed goddess, a peach, and a veritable plum."