“He is a man of honor—honor that is deep-rooted, ancestral.”
“He is a slave to the perfectly correct forms endorsed by the Knickerbocker Club.”
“He is a gentleman. He lives in the country upon acres that are his own, and is a father to those who serve him.”
“He is sacred to the memory of ‘noblesse oblige,’ and he rubs it in.”
“Galatea, you are an impudent and improvident young woman. As your legal guardian I would feel justified in locking you in your room, and keeping you there until you could realize the blessings you have and the opportunities that are open to you.”
“George, you are becoming almost as stupid as Arthur is. I wouldn’t have thought it of you. Listen. I am going to reform Arthur. I admit he’s worth saving. It is hopeless ever to expect him to develop a sense of humor, but he shall at least cultivate a sympathetic interest in Bos, Equus and Co.”
She took from her desk and thrust into the Poet’s hands pencils and a sheet of Bristol board.
“Take these to Arthur, please. I’ll join you in a minute.”
The Poet shook his head doubtfully, but obeyed. The girl stood for a moment with her finger on her lip, smiling. Then she took from a work-basket needles and thread and a yard or two of faded pink ribbon, and, picking up a somewhat dilapidated specimen of the fluffy chiffon headgear which she affected, she returned demurely to the veranda where the Artist was still painstakingly exercising the nutmeg-grater on Reginald’s back. The pig lifted his nose and grunted in her face, with language that could not be misunderstood:—
“Ah, at last! Our mutual friend here has been doing his best, but he falls short of exactly the right touch. Evidently he’s inexperienced.”