“Galatea,” said the Artist, with a supplicating glance into the girl’s eyes as he moved toward the vacant chair, “when I leave this evening will you walk part way to the station with me?”
“Are you going to be a true friend to my friend—to Reginald?”
The Poet had strolled to the other end of the veranda.
“Yes, Galatea. You could have no friend who would be unworthy of my friendship.” In spite of the nutmeg-grater in his hand, in spite of the waiting pig, his manner and his voice were romantic.
“Yes, Arthur, then I will walk with you to the station.” But the smile she gave him was reflective, and at least half of it rested on the pig.
The Artist sat down obediently and applied the nutmeg-grater with a will to Reginald’s back. Galatea disappeared within the house. Presently she was heard calling to her brother. The Poet followed her. He found her in the library, sitting limply in a straight-backed chair and holding her handkerchief to her mouth. With a gesture of warning she dragged him into her own little den off the library, closed the door, and gave her merriment full rein. The Poet regarded her solemnly. Presently she was able to speak, though her phrases were interrupted by convulsions of cachinnation.
“George, it is perfectly clear—that in one respect Arthur—is hopeless—Never, never, never—never in this world will he acquire the slightest sense of humor. Think of it! At this moment—with an old nutmeg-grater, he is scratching a pig’s back—with all the seriousness—and attention to detail—that he would give to a portrait of—the Empress of Russia—George, a little while ago I was angry with Arthur. I thought him stupid, self-sufficient, insufferable. But now, when I think of him out there—irreproachably attired—scratching Reginald’s back—with all the grave politeness—and earnestness—with which he would hand around cups of tea at one of Mrs. Van Rensellaer’s afternoons—I—I almost love him.”
The Poet had not even smiled.
“Galatea,” he said, without a trace of his customary solemn banter, “don’t you carry this thing too far with Arthur. He’s as good as gold. He’s a young man among a million.”
“George, Arthur is more than human. I won’t have it. He’s got to let himself down, like ordinary people.”