“Have you ever seen this lady, Peter?”

“Never, but I have heard of her—­who has not?”

“What have you heard?”

“That she galloped her horse up and down the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral, for one thing.”

“What more?”

“That she is proud, and passionate, and sudden of temper—­in a word, a virago!”

“Virago!” said Charmian, flinging up her head.

“Virago!” I nodded, “though she is handsome, I understand—­in a strapping way—­and I have it on very excellent authority that she is a black-browed goddess, a peach, and a veritable plum.”

“‘Strapping’ is a hateful word, Peter!”

“But very descriptive.”

“And—­doesn’t she interest you—­a little, Peter?”.

“Not in the least,” said I.

“And, pray, why not?”

“Because I care very little for either peaches or plums.”

“Or black-browed goddesses, Peter?”

“Not if she is big and strapping, and possesses a temper.”

“I suppose—­to such a philosopher as you—­a woman or a goddess, black-browed or not, can scarcely compare with, or hope to rival an old book, can she, sir?”

“Why, that depends, Charmian.”

“On what?”

“On the book!” said I.

Charmian rested her round elbows upon the table, and, setting her chin in her hands, stared squarely at me.

“Peter,” said she.

“Yes, Charmian?”

“If ever you did meet this lady—­I think—­”

“Well?”

“I know—­”

“What?”

“That you would fall a very easy victim!”

“I think not,” said I.

“You would be her slave in—­a month—­three weeks—­or much less—­”

“Preposterous!” I exclaimed.

“If she set herself to make you!”

“That would be very immodest!” said I; “besides, no woman can make a man love her.”

“Do your books teach you that, Peter?” Here, finding I did not answer, she laughed and nodded her head at me.  “You would be head over ears in love before you knew it!”

“I think not,” said I, smiling.

“You are the kind of man who would grow sick with love, and never know what ailed him.”

“Any man in such a condition would be a pitiful ass!” said I.

Charmian only laughed at me again, and went back to her scribbling.

“Then, if this lady married you,” said she suddenly, “you would be a gentleman of good position and standing?”

“Yes, I suppose so—­and probably miserable.”

“And rich, Peter?”

“I should have more than enough.”

“Instead of being a village blacksmith—­”

“With just enough, and absurdly happy and content,” I added, “which is far more desirable—­at least I think so.”

“Do you mean to say that you would rather—­exist here, and make horseshoes all your life, than—­live, respected, and rich.”