"
"You have been taking stock of me, sir!"
"Certainly I have been wondering why you were so silent, and looked
so ... grave."
"Be honest and fear not, Master Wheatman. You were not going to say
'grave.'"
"At the expense of many whippings from old Bloggs, I learned to be
precise in the use of words."
"I know, hence you were not going to say 'grave.'"
"You will allow me to choose my own words, madam."
"Certainly, so long as you choose the right ones."
She unhooked her hand, and we walked a minute or two without another
word, she frowning, and I fuming. Then she said wistfully, "Why did you
think I was cross?"
"I feared I had offended you," said I hastily and innocently.
She laughed long and merrily. "Old Bloggs taught you the silly rigmarole
you men call logic, but he didn't teach you woman's logic, that's plain.
Don't you see what I've made you do, Master Wheatman?"
"Not yet, Mistress Waynflete."
"Poof, slow-coach! I've made you admit that you were going to say 'cross'
but altered it, too late, to 'grave.'"
"You outrun me with your nimble and practised wit," said I, smiling.
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