“Berp-werp! Berp-werp!” came the voice of William Sylvanus Baxter.
And in the library Plutarch's Lives moved convulsively, while with writhing lips Mr. Parcher muttered to himself.
“More, more!” cried Miss Pratt, clapping her hands. “Do it again, ickle boy Baxter!”
“Berp-werp! Berp-werp-werp!”
“WORD!” muttered Mr. Parcher.
Miss Pratt's voice became surcharged with honeyed wonder. “How did he learn such marv'lous, MARV'LOUS imitations of darlin' Flopit? He ought to go on the big, big stage and be a really actor, oughtn't he, darlin' Flopit? He could make milyums and milyums of dollardies, couldn't he, darlin' Flopit?”
William's modest laugh disclaimed any great ambition for himself in this line. “Oh, I always could think up imitations of animals; things like that—but I hardly would care to—to adop' the stage for a career. Would—you?” (There was a thrill in his voice when he pronounced the ineffably significant word “you.”)
Miss Pratt became intensely serious.
“It's my DREAM!” she said.
William, seated upon a stool at her feet, gazed up at the amber head, divinely splashed by the rain of moonlight. The fire with which she spoke stirred him as few things had ever stirred him. He knew she had just revealed a side of herself which she reserved for only the chosen few who were capable of understanding her, and he fell into a hushed rapture. It seemed to him that there was a sacredness about this moment, and he sought vaguely for something to say that would live up to it and not be out of keeping. Then, like an inspiration, there came into his head some words he had read that day and thought beautiful. He had found them beneath an illustration in a magazine, and he spoke them almost instinctively.