Alice took her seat in the stern, and Charley (although there were several other seats in good repair) sat beside her.
I think it will be allowed me that no book was ever freer than this from satirical reflections upon women (or, in fact, freer from reflections of every sort upon any and all subjects); but I am constrained to observe, just here, that it seems to me that they have, at times, a rather inconsequential way of talking. That is, you cannot always tell, from what they have just said, what is coming next.
“I have asked you,” began Alice, “to come with me to this retired spot that I may have a talk with you. I have a favor to—Mr. Frobisher, you must be beside yourself! And the piazza full of people!” [Shades of Epaminondas! A. Frobisher.]
That’s what I complain of. When they begin a sentence, you never know how it is going to end.
“On the contrary,—thank heaven!—I am beside you.”
“But you won’t be beside me long, if you don’t behave yourself. Don’t,—oh, don’t! Are you crazy?”
“Perfectly,—and glad of it,” replied Charley, with brazen resignation.
“Well, then.” And with a supple grace disengaging herself from his proximity, so to speak, she whisked away to the seat in front.
That’s the reason I always did love women. Their memories are so short. No matter how angry they may be, if you will watch them while they are scolding you, you will see that they are forgiving you as fast as they can.
“You are perfectly outrageous!” said Alice; at the same time readjusting her collar,—and with both hands,—just to show how dreadfully provoked she was.