"No doubt," he said, "you'd like to have me live, like that cowboy, in a stable, and get my own meals."
"A garage would suit you better, I suppose," returned Kathleen. "What are you talking about?"
"Hasn't mother written you of the genius who has come out of the wild and woolly to get his Pegasus curried in New York?"
"Has mother taken up a genius?—Mother, of all people!"
"Why, she's had him at the house, and insists on my being civil to him; but I haven't seen him yet. I get enough of him right at the breakfast and dinner table without hunting up the stable. His ambition is at the bottom of my coffee cup, and his genius for hard work is served as an entrée every night."
"Oh,"—Kathleen's face gained a ray of interest,—"you mean that cousin of ours."
"He's no cousin," retorted Edgar. "He's one of mother's fifty-seven varieties, a sort of step-neighbor-in-law of ours. When father and mother were out at the mine they met him. I think it was up to him to stay out there and make that mine pay. I think if he'd shown a little genius for hard work right there, it would have been more to the point."
"Yes, mother wrote me." Kathleen's tone was tinged with the interest in her eyes. "What is his name, now?"
"Sidney," responded Edgar with open disgust. "Oh, I'm authority on his name all right,—Philip Sidney; I've had it dinged into my ears faithfully."