"Oh, I insist," Fairfield said, "that spring is only a season when the days are picked before they are ripe."
"You say that simply in your capacity of a literary man, Mr. Fairfield," Alice retorted; "but I doubt if it really means anything."
"I am afraid it doesn't mean much," he responded laughing, "but to insist that an epigram must mean something would limit production dreadfully."
"Then we are to understand," Mrs. Harbinger observed, "that what you literary men say is never to be taken seriously."
"Oh, you should make a distinction, Mrs. Harbinger. What a literary man says in his professional capacity you are at liberty to believe or not, just as you choose; but of course in regard to what is said in his personal capacity it is different."
"There, I suppose," she retorted, "he is simply to be classed with other men, and not to be believed at all."
"Bless me, what cynicism! Where is Mr. Harbinger to defend his reputation?"
"He is so absorbed in getting ready for the game that he has forgotten all about any reputation but that of a polo-player," Mrs. Harbinger returned. "And that reminds me that I haven't seen his new pony. Come, Alice, you appreciate a horse. We must go and examine this new wonder from Canada."
"We are not invited apparently," May said, seating herself in a piazza chair. "It is evidently your duty, Mr. Fairfield, to stay here and entertain me while they are gone."
"I remain to be entertained," he responded, following her example.