We can't resist them." He shrugged and smirked and wiggled his fingers and played with his mustaches.

"Wine and women and song, you know--they get us all.
But as for me--no wine, no song--but--" he finished the sentence with another flourish.
Barclay did what he could to smile good-naturedly and assent in some sort of way as he got out of the room.

That night, going up the hill, he said to Jane: "Brownwell is one of those fellows who regard all women--all females is better, probably--as a form of vice.

He's the kind that coos like a pouter pigeon when he talks to a woman." Jane replied: "Yes, we women know them.

They are always claiming that men like you are not gallant!" She added, "You know, John, he's the jealous, fiendish kind--with an animal's idea of honour." They walked on in silence for a moment, and she pressed his arm to her side and their eyes met in a smile.