“You accent the ‘we,’” said Diana, “as if you could imagine yourself quarrelling with other women.”
“Yes,” said he; “why not? But women have always the advantage of us in a quarrel. We can compel a man traitor or wrong-doer to pistol or rifle practice. If he shirks, he becomes a colonist of Coventry. But a woman shelters herself behind her sex and dodges the duello. There ought to be a code of honour for them also.”
“There is—in the hearts of the honourable,” said she.
“Ah, yes! but who are they? How are we to know them, except by those very tests that we cannot apply until falseness and dishonour on the woman’s part will be to us the cause of bitter wrong, such as a man should pay us with his life?”
“So you would challenge the gay deceiver to mortal combat? Weapons, a fan against a pocket-comb, across a skein of sewing-silk. Hail! O Attila! scourge of Flirtationdom! Newport will be depopulated when your plan prevails.”
“Depopulated of gay deceivers and their victims. You and I, Miss Clara and Paulding, would be left to weep over the slain and strew their graves with old bouquet leaves. But pity the sorrows of the young heroes, murdered now and unavenged, while their murderesses sing their siren song to annual freshmen.”
“But why do your freshmen listen to siren songs?”
“Freshmen love music and are unfamiliar with sirens. And even men no longer so fresh, who have been forced to hear sorrowful songs, may mistake siren song for angel song. Harmony is so rare and so heavenly. We hear it one day, and land. We meet no chilling reception; the siren sings on sweetly. The dewy violet and the thornless rose are still worn and the young heart or the weary heart has but one word more of passion to say. The third and last degree of lovers’ lessons waits to be taken, lip to lip. But—Halte là! ‘Will you walk out of my parlour?’ says the spider to the fly. ‘Certainly, fair tarantula, since you insist upon it.’ Another freshman is on the threshold, or another not-so-very-fresh may be wooed into the web. Continue, pretty dear, your wanton wiles. Sing away, Siren, seeming angel. We are out. Adieu!” and Dunstan, whose cigar was smoked to the thick, drew an immense puff and breathing out a perfect ring, deposited it upon his engagement finger. He held up his hand, while the smoke slowly drifted away in the still, warm air.
Diana laughed. “Very well done, the ring and the description. But the termination was rather too contemptuous for the poetry of the beginning.”
“Was it?” said he. “Contempt is not a pleasant feeling. I supposed myself too old to express, if not to have it.”