“Of course not,” said the editor, somewhat impatient under the singular scrutiny of Mr. Bowers; “and I'm very anxious to know how she looks. Tell me, what is she like?”
“She is a fine, pow'ful, eddicated woman,” said Mr. Bowers, with slow deliberation. “Yes, sir,—a pow'ful woman, havin' grand ideas of her own, and holdin' to 'em.” He had withdrawn his eyes from the editor, and apparently addressed the ceiling in confidence.
“But what does she look like, Mr. Bowers?” said the editor, smiling.
“Well, sir, she looks—LIKE—IT! Yes,”—with deliberate caution,—“I should say, just like it.”
After a pause, apparently to allow the editor to materialize this ravishing description, he said, gently, “Are you busy just now?”
“Not very. What can I do for you?”
“Well, not much for ME, I reckon,” he returned, with a deeper respiration, that was his nearest approach to a sigh, “but suthin' perhaps for yourself and—another. Are you married?”
“No,” said the editor, promptly.
“Nor engaged to any—young lady?”—with great politeness.
“No.”