“And the gentlemen. What do you think of them?”
“Eh? the mens, did you say? Oh, they’re so wimpsy!” And bursting into a peal of laughter, the mother tossed up the baby again until he too joined in the merriment over the “wimpsyness,” whatever that was, of the tourists from the North.
“Do you know, I feel as though Calhoun himself was laughing at me from his grave,” I said, as we walked away. “Your Arcadians, Sara, have made me more conscious of my bodily defects than a whole regiment of fine city people. What a shape that woman had! what eyes! what teeth! But what did she mean by wimpsy?”
“Very likely she meant Mokes. He is certainly limpsy; then why not wimpsy? There he is, by-the-way.”
So he was, sitting with (of all persons in the world!) the governess. “In 1648 there were three hundred householders resident in St. Augustine, Mr. Mokes,” we heard her say as we drew near.
“Must have wanted to—beast of a place,” commented Mokes. He looked up doubtfully as we went by, but not having decided exactly how strong-minded Sara might be, he concluded not to venture; the governess at least never posed a fellow with startling questions.
“Poor Mokes!” I said.
“Oh yes, very poor!”
“I was thinking of his forlorn love affair, Sara.”
