“I think not,” she answered, quietly. “Women have to give all,—men are free to take all.”
He was, for the moment, silent. It dawned upon him that the Sentimentalist was not “a Plum,”—a Plum to fall into his mouth with a bang. She might be ripe,—but she was not ready. With elaborate slowness he withdrew his socked feet from the fender and slipped them into his ungainly shoes.
“Very well,—it comes to this,” he said, resignedly, “Women are always right, and men always wrong—in a woman’s opinion. As I have already remarked, you cannot bear to be contradicted.”
She looked at him with eyes dancing merrily like sparkles of light.
“Oh—h-h!” and she held up a small reproachful finger. “Who is contradicting anybody? There’s nothing to contradict! We were having just a little friendly argument which started on your last piece of rudeness.”
“Rudeness?” he exclaimed. “When and how have I been rude?”
“Don’t you think it was very rude to say that you doubted whether I would keep a husband six months?”
“Nothing rude about it,” he declared, airily. “It was a frank statement.”
“Suppose I made a ‘frank statement’ about you?” she suggested. “Do you think you would care to hear it?”
“It depends entirely on the nature of the statement,” he replied. “I should decline to listen to anything incorrect.”