at me steadily a minute, a deal of criticism in his eye.
"Why, Bab," he cries, "what in the prophet's name's upon you? 'Tis a new rôle, I see. What in the name of mercy is the part? Are you Niobe mourning for her young, or a pale Jocasta, or a drunken baggage that goes too often to the 'Jug?'" "Out, rogue," says I, "or I will put you out." "I see you have already put yourself out," says he. "But what in conscience is the matter?" "Out, rogue," I repeated. "I will not have your horrid sex intruding on my presence—wretched, crafty, undermining creatures!" "Faith!" says he, "I've always said it. "Wretched, puling, prying rogues. Here, Bab, I'll just unslip these petticoats and will resume the breeches of a man." "Mention that word again and I'll beat you to a purpose, you insolent slip of beggary." "Go on, sweet," says he, taking his seat calmly by the fire. "I like it. Your beauty is most monstrous when your eyes blaze. Rat me, if you don't look an accidental angel, darling." Now, as this audacious rebel sat there laughing quietly in true enjoyment of my rage, I judged it better to restrain it if I could, and tell him of the case. He heard me out with patience, approved heartily of my trick, paid me a compliment on the unscrupulosity of its character, swore I was a cunning one, and so forth; but when I showed him the clean paper with never a written word upon it, he
