“Oh!” she murmured, overwhelmed with astonishment. Then she broke into one of her delicious peals of laughter.
“Anybody,” I said, “likes a boy who plays a hand—and a fist—to that tune.” I continued to say a number of commendatory words about young John, while her sparkling eyes rested upon me. But even as I talked I grew aware that these eyes were not sparkling, were starry rather, and distant, and that she was not hearing what I said; so I stopped abruptly, and at the stopping she spoke, like a person waking up.
“Oh, yes! Certainly he can take care of himself. Why not?”
“Rather creditable, don’t you think?”
“Creditable?”
“Considering his aunts and everything.”
She became haughty on the instant. “Upon my word! And do you suppose the women of South Carolina don’t wish their men to be men? Why”—she returned to mirth and that arch mockery which was her special charm—“we South Carolina women consider virtue our business, and we don’t expect the men to meddle with it!”
“Primal, perpetual, necessary!” I cried. “When that division gets blurred, society is doomed. Are you sure John can take care of himself every way?”
“I have other things than Mr. Mayrant to think about.” She said this quite sharply.
It surprised me. “To be sure,” I assented. “But didn’t you once tell me that you thought he was simple?”