The girl laughed in spite of herself. Even the over-serious Artist was not proof against a conceit so pungent. But Galatea’s mood puzzled and disturbed him, for he really loved her as self-complacent young men often do love girls of keen wit and analytical minds.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “I have no drawing materials with me.”
“I can supply them,” replied the girl, rising.
Reginald grunted reproachfully and started to scramble down from the chair.
“O Reginald, forgive me. I had forgotten you came to have your poor back scratched.”
She turned to the Artist. “Arthur, kindly hand me that nutmeg-grater over by the honeysuckle vine.”
The Artist obeyed. The pig grunted in grateful anticipation. Galatea applied the nutmeg-grater where she knew by experience it would do the most good. Napoleon sniffed disgustedly, jumped down from the chair, and went to the Poet for consolation.
“Now, Arthur,” said the girl presently, handing him the nutmeg-grater, “you attend to Reginald while I go for the drawing materials.”
The Artist took the unfamiliar instrument, looked at it, and then at the pig, and then at Galatea. He seemed dazed. As has been remarked before in this truthful narrative, the Artist was a most correct and proper young man. He was fashionably dressed, and with excellent taste. He would have considered it a crime to wear a cravat that disagreed by so much as a single dot or stripe from the prevailing mode. The thought of having in any way transgressed the rules of good form, as laid down in the exclusive club of which he was a member, would have tortured him for weeks. Could he conscientiously scratch a pig’s back—with a cast-off nutmeg-grater?
Galatea drew up a chair close to that occupied by Reginald. “Come, Arthur; you will not find Reginald ungrateful.”