 to her: -
she had to Jonah the adjective. What the poor fellow said was ...« he murmured
the sixty-pounder adjective, as in the belly of the whale, to rightly emphasize
his noun.
    Whitmonby nodded to the superior relish imparted by the vigour of masculine
veracity in narration. »A story for its native sauce piquante,« he said.
    »Nothing without it!«
    They had each a dissolving grain of contempt for women compelled by their
delicacy to spoil that kind of story which demands the piquant accompaniment to
flavour it racily and make it passable. For to see insipid mildness complacently
swallowed as an excellent thing, knowing the rich smack of savour proper to the
story, is your anecdotal gentleman's annoyance. But if the anecdote had
supported him, Sullivan Smith would have let the expletive rest.
    Major Carew Mahoney capped Mrs. Warwick's tale of the unfortunate duellist
with another, that confessed the practice absurd, though he approved of it; and
he cited Lord Larrian's opinion: »It keeps men braced to civil conduct.«
    »I would not differ with the dear old lord; but no! the pistol is the
sceptre of the bully,« said Diana.
    Mr. Hepburn, with the widest of eyes on her in perpetuity, warmly agreed;
and the man was notorious among men for his contrary action.
    »Most righteously our Princess Egeria distinguishes her reign by prohibiting
it,« said Lady Singleby.
    »And how,« Sullivan Smith sighed heavily, »how, I'd ask, are ladies to be
protected from the bully?«
    He was beset: »So it was all for us? all in consideration for our benefit?«
    He mournfully exclaimed: »Why, surely!«
    »That is the funeral apology of the Rod, at the close of every barbarous
chapter,« said Diana.
    »Too fine in mind, too fat in body; that is a consequence with men, dear
madam. The conqueror stands to his weapons, or he loses his possessions.«
    »Mr. Sullivan Smith jumps at his pleasure from the special to the general,
and will be back, if we follow him, Lady Pennon. It is the trick men charge to
women, showing that they can resemble us.«
    Lady Pennon thumped her knee. »Not a bit. There's no resemblance, and they
know nothing of us.«
    »Women are a blank to them, I believe,« said Whitmonby, treacherously
bowing; and Westlake said: »Traces of a singular scrawl have been observed when
