"Oh, Peter!"
"Already, by divers honest-hearted rustics, I am credited with having cast a deadly spell upon certain unfortunate pigs, with having fought hand to hand with the hosts of the nethermost pit, and with having sold my soul to the devil—may I trouble you to pass the butter?"
"Oh, Peter, how foolish of them!"
"And how excusable! considering their ignorance and superstition," said I. "Mine, I am well aware, is not a face to win me the heart of man, woman, or child; they (especially women and children) share, in common with dogs and horses, that divine attribute which, for want of a better name, we call 'instinct,' whereby they love or hate for the mere tone of a voice, the glance of an eye, the motion of a hand, and, the love or hate once given, the prejudice for, or against, is seldom wholly overcome."
"Indeed," said Charmian, "I believe in first impressions."
"Being a woman," said I.
"Being a woman!" she nodded; "and the instinct of dog and child and woman has often proved true in the end."
"Surely instinct is always true?" said I—"I'd thank you for another cup of tea—yet, strangely enough, dogs generally make friends with me very readily, and the few children to whom I've spoken have neither screamed nor run away from me. Still, as I said before, I am aware that my looks are scarcely calculated to gain the love of man, woman, or child; not that it matters greatly, seeing that I am likely to hold very little converse with either."
"There is one woman, Peter, to whom you have talked by the hour together—"
"And who is doubtless weary enough of it all—more especially of
Epictetus and Trojan Helen."