MY LADY OF THE BREECHES
Oo
THE FOOL
“ WouLD you marry me, then?” the widow said.
“Yes, of course!” the man replied.
“You are a greater fool than I took you for.”
“What do you mean?” he queried, vexed and puzzled.
“Am I to take it that you had the intention—that you were
prepared... ?”
“Go on.”
“T don’t know.”
“T will be,” she said, repressing a merry chuckle, “ quite
outspoken. I was preparedto...donothing. Had you formu-
lated some reasonable request . . . well, it might have ended
otherwise. But marriage! Whom do you take me for?”
And the lady—she was dark-haired—whistled to her
favourite monkey, a reddish animal, who bounded on her lap.
Lionel Tabard left them both, in their inspiring contrast;
never unfrowning his well-shaped but delusive brow.
‘A few days later, he attempted to kiss the whimsical widow,
who then horse-whipped him, meaning to teach him—not
manners, but a-propos. Then she laughed. But he proved
unintelligent, and never repeated his insult. Hence a nasty
nickname from her lips.
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