Eppy looked at him pettishly. She didn’t like to be so violently interrupted. “Certainly a cow,” she returned frigidly. “Is there anything strange in a cow?” and she drew herself up with an injured air.
“No, there’s nothing strange in a cow when it is by itself,” replied Sir William dryly, “but in a marine, well, it is a little hard on the cow.”
“You don’t know what you are saying, Sir William,” flashed Eppy indignantly. “Please don’t interrupt me again. The cow I have reference to was in one corner drinking. I heard Lady Nancy Gordon telling Mrs. McLehose that the cow looked as if it were trying to drink the ocean dry; the idea!” and she clucked her tongue against her teeth in contemptuous scorn. “She’s a cat,” she continued spitefully; “I never could bear her. She was uncommon jealous of me, yes, indeed, but that’s another matter.”
Sir William turned crimson, and seemed about to choke, as he tried to smother his laughter. “You were telling me about your marine,” he finally stuttered.
“Don’t hurry me, Sir William,” said Eppy coquettishly. “Well, I took it to Lord Mundobbo. You know whom I mean; at that time he had something to do with the National Gallery; Mr. Nichol didn’t inform me as to his exact connection with it.” She paused and gazed soulfully into space. “Shall I ever forget the day? The sun was high in the heavens—but there,” she broke off with a deprecating smile. “I really must restrain my poetic impulse. But as I was saying,” she rambled on quickly, “the sky was overcast and threatening snow——”
“I thought the sun was shining, Miss McKay,” interrupted Sir William gruffly.
She was beginning to get on his nerves again. “I am a little mixed in my metaphors,” apologized Eppy condescendingly, “but you flustrate me so, Sir William,” and she tapped him playfully with her fan. “Well, I felt that victory was mine. I took off the paper—it was pink, tied with a yellow string—and laid it before him.” She paused impressively, then she continued in an elocutionary tone of voice. “He gazed at it long and silently. He was simply speechless. I knew he’d be. I said to him, ‘Lord Mundobbo, as much as it grieves me to part with my—ahem—masterpiece, for the sake of art I will permit you to add it to the collection of paintings in the National Gallery.’ Said he, ‘Miss McKay, really I appreciate this honor you do me and the National Gallery. It is a masterpiece of its kind, but I cannot accept it.’”
“The brute!” exclaimed Sir William in mock anger. “Why not?”