He held her off, regarding her curiously.
“All in pink? Nothing like pink to show dirt. Wherefore all this regardlessness of expense, Galatea?”
She took a letter from her bosom and gave it to him.
“It’s from Arthur. It came in the morning mail. I didn’t want to disturb you—and William—in your literary labors. You’d better read it now.”
The Poet read:—
“‘I’m taking a little spin out your way in my new Red Ripper. Will reach your place about noon. If you’ve nothing else to do, we can have a whirl down the old Post Road and back before two o’clock. Then I must be off to Stamford on an important engagement about a portrait—in fact, it means the price of this modest luxury on wheels. But do give me the two hours. Think what poetic wonders George may accomplish in that time, undistracted by your luminous presence.’”
THE GOAT SEEMED TO NOD HIS APPROVAL
“‘Luminous presence’ isn’t bad,” commented the Poet. “That is, for Arthur. Don’t you give him any of your impudence, Galatea. We can’t afford to quarrel with people who can own Red Rippers.”
“Rubbish, George. Arthur is sometimes very trying. He isn’t half as handsome as he thinks he is.”