She straightened herself in the saddle.
“I like not this talk of dying,” she snapped.
“Gad, it is not greatly to my mind on a fine morning after a hearty meal. When I can strike no longer may I fall handsomely, say I. Yet I thought you were bent on chewing the unsavory morsel, though, to be sure, you mainly use your teeth to vastly better purpose.”
She glanced up at him, clearing her eyes defiantly.
“You make no allowance for a woman’s feelings,” she said. “Did I not know the contrary, I should believe you held women of no account.”
“I’ faith, that would be doing me an injustice. When a woman says ‘Lack-a-day,’ my tongue wags in sympathy. If she weeps, my heart grows as soft as a fuzz-ball.”
“Fuzz-ball! That is a word you have not yet taught me,” she said.
“It much resembles a round mushroom, and when dry, it bursts if you squeeze it.”
“Oh, go to! I never before met your like.”