"Ah! but there is another rule that I forgot to tell you."
"What is that?"
"That no lady ever marries a gentleman who has a violent temper."
"Oh, don't they?"
"No; they would be afraid. If you had a wife, and took up the poker,
she would faint away, and die--perhaps!"
"Oh, dear!"
"I should."
"But, cousin, you would not _want_ the poker taken to you; you
never nag."
"Perhaps that is because we are not married yet."
"What, then, when we are, shall you turn like the others?"
"Impossible to say."
"Well, then" (after a moment's hesitation), "I'll marry you all the
same."
"No! you forget; I shall be afraid until your temper mends."
"I'll mend it. It is mended now. See how good I am now," added he,
with self-admiration and a shade of surprise.
"I don't call this mending it, for I am not the one that offended you;
mending it is promising me never, never to call naughty names again.
How would you like to be called a dog?"
"I'd kill 'em."
"There, you see--then how can you expect poor nurse to like it?"
"You don't understand, cousin--Tom said to George the groom that Mrs.
Jones was an--old--stingy--b--"
"I don't want to hear anything about Tom."
"He is such a clever fellow, cousin. So I think, if Jones is an old
one, those two that keep nagging me must be young ones. What do you
think yourself?" asked Reginald, appealing suddenly to her candor.
"And no doubt it was Tom that taught you this other vulgar word
'nagging,'" was the evasive reply.
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