"Why, Charmian?"

"Because it would be a book of artfully turned phrases; a book in which all the characters, especially women, would think and speak and act by rote and rule--as according to Mr. Peter Vibart; it would be a scholarly book, of elaborate finish and care of detail, with no irregularities of style or anything else to break the monotonous harmony of the whole--indeed, sir, it would be a most unreadable book!"

"Do you think so, Charmian?" said I, once more taking up the teaspoon.

"Why, of course!" she answered, with raised brows; "it would probably be full of Greek and Latin quotations! And you would polish and rewrite it until you had polished every vestige of life and spontaneity out of it, as you do out of yourself, with your thinking and thinking."

"But I never quote you Greek or Latin; that is surely something, and, as for thinking, would you have me a thoughtless fool or an impulsive ass?"

"Anything rather than a calculating, introspective philosopher, seeing only the mote in the sunbeam, and nothing of the glory."

Here she gently disengaged the teaspoon from my fingers and laid it in her own saucer, having done which she sighed, and looked at me with her head to one side. "Were they all like you, Peter, I wonder--those old philosophers, grim and stern, and terribly repressed, with burning eyes, Peter, and with very long chins?

Epictetus was, of course!"

"And you dislike Epictetus, Charmian?"

"I detest him! He was just the kind of person, Peter, who, being unable to sleep, would have wandered out into a terrible thunderstorm, in the middle of the night, and, being cold and wet and clammy, Peter, would have drawn moral lessons, and made epigrams upon the thunder and lightning. Epictetus, I am quite sure, was a--person!"

"He was one of the wisest, gentlest, and most lovable of all the Stoics!" said I.

"Can a philosopher possibly be lovable, Peter?" Here I very absent-mindedly took up a fork, but, finding her eye upon me, laid it down again.

"You are very nervous, Peter, and very pale and worn and haggard, and all because you habitually--overthink yourself; and indeed, there is something very far wrong with a man who perseveringly stirs an empty cup--with a fork!" And, with a laugh, she took my cup and, having once more refilled it, set it before me.

"And yet, Peter--I don't think--no, I don't think I would have you very much changed, after all."

"You mean that you would rather I remained the pedantic, egotistical creature--"

"I mean, Peter, that, being a woman, I naturally love novelty, and you are very novel--and very interesting."

"Thank you!" said I, frowning.

"And more contradictory than any woman!"

"Hum!" said I.

"You are so strong and simple--so wise and brave--and so very weak and foolish and timid!"

"Timid?" said I.

"Timid!" nodded she.

"I am a vast fool!" I acknowledged.

"And I never knew a man anything like you before, Peter!"

"And you have known many, I understand?"

"Very many."

"Yes--you told me so once before, I believe."

"Twice, Peter; and each time you became very silent and gloomy!

Now you, on the other hand," she continued, "have known very few women?"

"And my life has been calm and unruffled in consequence!"

"You had your books, Peter, and your horseshoes."

"My books and horseshoes, yes."

"And were content?"

"Quite content."

"Until, one day--a woman--came to you."

"Until, one day--I met a woman."

"And then--?"

"And then--I asked her to marry me, Charmian." Here there ensued a pause, during which Charmian began to pleat a fold in the tablecloth.

"That was rather--unwise of you, wasn't it?" said she at last.

"How unwise?"

"Because--she might--have taken you at your word, Peter."

"Do you mean that--that you won't, Charmian?"

"Oh dear, no! I have arrived at no decision yet how could I?

You must give me time to consider." Here she paused in her pleating to regard it critically, with her head on one side. "To be sure," said she, with a little nod, "to be sure, you need some one to--to look after you--that is very evident!"

"Yes."

"To cook--and wash for you."

"Yes."

"To mend your clothes for you."

"Yes."

"And you think me--sufficiently competent?"

"Oh, Charmian, I--yes."

Thank you!" said she, very solemnly, and, though her lashes had drooped, I felt the mockery of her eyes; wherefore I took a sudden great gulp of tea, and came near choking, while Charmian began to pleat another fold in the tablecloth.