“The Professor used to invite me in often,” he complained. “The red-headed girl would, too, I’m sure, if she knew I was here.”
“No, she wouldn’t. She’s busy with that automobile chap. Can’t you hear their voices through the window?”
Reginald listened. Yes, it was the voice he loved so well—when accompanied by the delicious sensation of one of Amanda’s cast-off nutmeg-graters being rubbed smartly up and down his spine. It was cool and even, and was saying:—
“No, Arthur, I won’t go for a walk, thank you. I don’t think I like you very well to-day. You explain that you walked over from the station out of regard for the feelings of Cleopatra and Clarence, and yet you are wholly oblivious of my feelings. You come out here without your Red Ripper on an ideal day for a spin, and then you add insult to injury by talking of nothing else. Arthur, I hate your Red Ripper, I despise its phenomenally perfect sparking device, I loathe its triple-speed gear—”
The pig lifted up his voice in supplication. It was not in vain. Galatea emerged upon the veranda, smiling a welcome to Reginald, whom the Artist regarded with dark looks of resentment.
“Good-morning, Reginald; won’t you be seated?” she said brightly, dragging forward an easy-chair.
The intelligent pig scrambled into the chair, making confidential little throaty grunts out of the side of his mouth into the ear of his hostess. The bull-terrier satisfied his dignity by barking one brief comment for Reginald’s benefit:—
“Now what do you think? This isn’t the parlor. Perhaps you’ll understand after this that the veranda is the limit, for a pig.”
“Hush, Napoleon,” commanded the red-headed girl. “Here, get up beside Reginald and make him feel at home.”
It was a wide chair. After but one instant of disgusted hesitation, the bull-terrier obeyed.