“Yes, George?”
“There’s a letter from Arthur. Come down.”
“I can’t, this moment. Je suis en déshabillé.”
“I thought so; your voice sounds full of pins. But you don’t need to air your Vassar French. The pig isn’t listening.”
“My French prose is better than your English verse. What does Arthur say?”
“He’ll be out here early.”
“What for?”
“Girl, have a care! While you are about it, make the most of the small charms with which the good Lord has endowed you.”
“I will, brother mine; I’m expecting Reginald to have his back scratched.”
Truth to tell, the pig was already contemplating a call with that object in view. Since early morning Cleopatra and her yearling colt, Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius, and William, the big-horned one, had diligently cropped the dewy grass of the lower lawn until their sides bulged, while Reginald was so replete with artichokes that he was constrained to sit on his haunches and grunt stuffily while making occasional rude comments on the gluttony of his comrades.