Both Reginald and Napoleon assumed attitudes really remarkable for their ease and naturalness.
“Ahem!” began the Artist, growing very red in the face, and stopped abruptly at a coolly inquiring glance from Galatea.
“Do I understand,” she inquired frigidly, “that you take the absurd position of Paderewski, Calvé, Jean de Reszke, and other public favorites, and disdain to exhibit your art upon social occasions?”
“Not at all,” answered the Artist hastily, while the Poet regarded them solemnly, but with a twinkle in his eye. “No, but—Well, you see, I—I am not accustomed to have pigs sit to me for their portraits—at least, not upon social occasions.”
“It is perhaps as well that you should understand fully that Reginald is a personal friend of mine, and that we are on terms, not only of sympathetic affection, but of perfect equality.” And the girl placed her arm about the pig’s neck with a caressing touch that sent him into a transport of appreciative grunts.
“If I thought that you were guying me—”
The girl turned upon him sharply. “Have I ever insinuated that you were guying me when you compelled me to listen for hours to mechanical details about your Red Ripper? I, to whom poets are proud to read their original manuscripts in advance of publication?”
“Arthur,” said the Poet gravely, “Galatea is right. This is a case of love me, love my pig. Your professional pride need not suffer. In fact, the result of your labors may bear appropriately a title that is classical.” He turned to his sister. “Galatea, I assume that you are to be in the picture—you will sit with the pig?”
“Certainly,” said the girl, as a swift glance of understanding passed between brother and sister.
“Why, then, just consider, Arthur,” said the Poet cheerfully, “you can send your picture to the Fall Exhibition catalogued as, ‘Pig-Malion and Galatea.’”