She is the born coquette.

Her delighted conception of herself is that she is the object of every man's admiration.

I noticed her this morning playing a tune with her fingers on the old bathing-man's arm, as he was preparing to take her into the water, and I saw his mahogany face soften.

In her indescribable childish way she would coquet with a tax-collector or a rag-and-bone man or the Archbishop of Canterbury.

But she has committed no grave indiscretion, and I am sufficiently her lord and master to exact obedience.
I pretend, however, to be at her beck and call, and it is a delight to minister to her radiant happiness--to feel her lean on my arm and hear her cooing voice say: "You are so good.