“Yes; rather neat, I call it. Isn’t she a beauty? Only two tons weight and forty horsepower; maximum of sixty-nine miles an hour on a level road; climbs hills like a goat; the only sparking device that never hitches—”
“Kind to women and children and stands without hitchin’,” drawled the Poet.
“Quit your kidding, George,” and then, at a loud snort from Cleopatra: “I say, George, who’re your friends?”
“Including Galatea and myself, they’re Bos, Equus and Co.”
“Oh, freedom of the place—part of the family, eh? You’re a queer chap, George. They don’t seem quite friendly. I hate to break up a happy home, you know.”
“It does look like it, Arthur. The mare can’t bear the sight of a vehicle that is independent of her services. The bull-calf resents its brilliant color. Besides, they all hang together on general principles. However, Galatea and I still retain a few of our characteristics unchanged by these associations. We forgive you.”
Gabriel and Amanda returned to their duties in potato-patch and kitchen. The Poet went into the house, leaving the Artist with Galatea on the veranda. She had given him her hand with a bewildering smile, but as he immediately began to chatter interminably about his automobile and the great things he was going to do in the way of speed, her red lips shaped themselves into a curl that was not so pleasant, and if he had noticed the satirical little side glances she gave him now and then, his tone would have been much less complacent.
The Artist was really an excellent fellow, stalwart, straight-limbed, and undeniably handsome. His type originated with the new generation of popular fiction illustrators. You would instantly recognize his smooth-shaven face, his straight nose, and his determined chin for those of the plain American young hero who walks unconcernedly into the boudoir of the Crown Princess of Grossbock (who falls desperately in love with him at first sight), and presently rescues her from the very foot of the throne, dashing with her in his arms through a whole regiment of Hussars, without turning a hair. It was not to be expected that such a hero would remain sacred to the romances over which little girls weep tears of joy and longing. The daughter of Isaac Ickleheimer called her father’s attention to him one day, and ever since then he has adorned the advertising pages of the magazines, attired in the most lovely ready-to-wear clothes, with shoulders more than human.
But the Artist couldn’t help this, any more than he could help chattering about his new automobile to a girl who was dying to have soft nothings whispered in her ear. After a while Galatea, realizing that such hopes were doomed to disappointment for the present, abruptly choked off the dissertation on Red Rippers by dragging the Artist in to luncheon.
With the human element thus eliminated, now occurred one of those scenes which gave to the present chronicler his chief inspiration.