“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.” “A complex being, man,” I agreed. “We will call him X. Can you imagine young X coming to you and saying: ‘My dear Robina, you have many excellent qualities. You can be amiable—so long as you are having your own way in everything; but thwarted you can be just horrid. You are very kind—to those who are willing for you to be kind to them in your own way, which is not always their way. You can be quite unselfish—when you happen to be in an unselfish mood, which is far from frequent. You are capable and clever, but, like most capable and clever people, impatient and domineering; highly energetic when not feeling lazy; ready to forgive the moment your temper is exhausted. You are generous and frank, but if your object could only be gained through meanness or deceit you would not hesitate a moment longer than was necessary to convince yourself that the circumstances justified the means. You are sympathetic, tender-hearted, and have a fine sense of justice; but I can see that tongue of yours, if not carefully watched, wearing decidedly shrewish. You have any amount of grit. A man might go tiger-hunting with you—with no one better; but you are obstinate, conceited, and exacting. In short, to sum you up, you have all the makings in you of an ideal wife combined with faults sufficient to make a Socrates regret he’d ever married you.’” “Yes, I would!” said Robina, springing to her feet. I could not see her face, but I knew there was the look upon it that made Primgate want to paint her as Joan of Arc; only it would never stop long enough. “I’d love him for talking like that. And I’d respect him. If he was that sort of man I’d pray God to help me to be the sort of woman he wanted me to be. I’d try. I’d try all day long. I would!” “I wonder,” I said. Robina had surprised me. I admit it. I thought I knew the sex better. “Any girl would,” said Robina. “He’d be worth it.”