'Why, look at his neck,' said Sinfi, turning down my neckerchief; 'is that sunburn, or is it Romany brown, I should like to know?'
'I assure you,' said the speaker, still addressing her in the same grave, measured voice, 'that the Romanies have no idea what a little soap can do with the Romany brown.'
'Do you mean to say,' cried Sinfi, now entirely losing her temper (for on the subject of Romany cleanliness she, the most cleanly of women, was keenly sensitive)—'do you mean to say as the Romany dials an' the Romany dries don't wash theirselves? I know what you fine Gorgios do say,—you're allus a-tellin' lies about us Romanies. Brother,' she cried, turning now to me in a great fury, 'I'm a duke's chavi, an' mustn't fight no mumply Gorgios; why don't you take an' make his bed for him?'
And certainly the man's supercilious impertinence was beginning to irritate me.
'I should advise you to withdraw that about the soap,' I said quietly, looking at him.
'Oh! and if I don't?'
'Why, then I suppose I must do as my sister bids,' said I. 'I must make your bed,' pointing to the grass beneath his feet. 'But I think it only fair to tell you that I am somewhat of a fighting man, which you probably are not.'
'You mean…?' said he (turning round menacingly, but with no more notion of how to use his fists than a lobster).
'I mean that we should not be fighting on equal terms,' I said.
'In other words,' said he, 'you mean…?' and he came nearer.