Grant was furious, thought Craig's words the limit of impertinent
free-spokenness. "Well, what of it?" said he savagely.

"I like her," replied Josh condescendingly. "But she's been badly
brought up, and is full of foolish ideas, like all your women
here. But she's a thoroughbred."

"Then you like her?" observed Arkwright without enthusiasm.

"So-so. Of course, she isn't fit to be a wife, but for her type
and as a type she's splendid."

Arkwright felt like kicking him and showed it. "What a bounder you
are at times, Josh," he snapped.

Craig laughed and slapped him on the back. "There you go again,
with your absurd notions of delicacy. Believe me, Grant, you don't
understand women. They don't like you delicate fellows. They like
a man--like me--a pawer of the ground--a snorter--a warhorse that
cries ha-ha among the trumpets."

"The worst thing about what you say," replied Arkwright sourly,
"is that it's the truth. I don't say the women aren't worthy of
us, but I do say they're not worthy of our opinion of them....
Well, I suppose you're going to try to marry her"--this with a
vicious gleam which he felt safe in indulging openly before one so
self-absorbed and so insensible to subtleties of feeling and
manner.