"And a good job too."
Lady Charlotte was ever on the crest-wave of the moment's humour. He snicked a back-stroke to the limits, shaking the sparse hair of repentance to the wind of her jest. But the unabashed one continued.
"I'll not call on her."
"You shall," said he.
"Shan't," was her lightning-parry.
"You shall," he persisted.
"Never. Her head is a water-flower that speaks at ease in the open sea. How call on a woman with a head like that?"
The shock struck him fair and square.
"We wait," he said, and the conflict closed with advantage to the petticoat.
A footman bore a letter. His step was of the footman order, calves stuffed to a longed-for bulbousness, food for donkeys if any such should chance: he presented it.