"If he was silly
enough to like her faults, and encourage her in them--"
"What could he have done," I asked, "even if he had seen them? A
lover does not point out his mistress's shortcomings to her."
"Much the more sensible plan if he did," insisted Robina. "Then if
she cared for him she could set to work to cure herself."
"You would like it?" I said; "you would appreciate it in your own
case? Can you imagine young Bute--?"
"Why young Bute?" demanded Robina; "what's he got to do with it?"
"Nothing," I answered; "except that he happens to be the first male
creature you have ever come across since you were six that you
haven't flirted with."
"I don't flirt with them," said Robina; "I merely try to be nice to
them."
"With the exception of young Bute," I persisted.
"He irritates me," Robina explained.
"I was reading," I said, "the other day, an account of the marriage
customs prevailing among the Lower Caucasians. The lover takes his
stand beneath his lady's window, and, having attracted her attention,
proceeds to sing. And if she seems to like it--if she listens to it
without getting mad, that means she doesn't want him. But if she
gets upset about it--slams down the window and walks away, then it's
all right. I think it's the Lower Caucasians."
"Must be a very silly people," said Robina; "I suppose a pail of
water would be the highest proof of her affection he could hope for.
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