“Thank you, Arthur,” said Galatea amiably, accepting the post which the Artist surrendered to her. “Reginald says you have been very attentive. Now he will reciprocate by posing in his very best manner. Attention, Reginald!”
The pig assumed a serious and dignified expression. The girl sat beside him, placing the chiffon affair daintily over his ears. The Artist seated himself opposite with pencils and drawing-board. The Poet leaned against the veranda rail and looked over the Artist’s shoulder. His long visage had resumed its customary expression of whimsical solemnity. The Artist’s manner was unaffectedly professional.
“Does the hat belong to the pose?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Galatea. “The idea is that of a girl thoughtful for the comfort of her dumb friend. To protect his head from the rays of the July sun she places upon it the hat taken from her own head, already well protected by nature.”
“True,” commented the Poet. “I’ve often thought how chagrined the July sun must feel when he attempts to vie with your blazing topknot.”
“As a matter of fact,” went on Galatea composedly, “the flies have been worrying poor Reginald’s ears terribly. Hereafter he shall have the same protection as other civilized beings.”
The Artist’s pencil moved swiftly. With needle and thread Galatea attached a pink ribbon to each side of the hat,—while Reginald grunted confidential inquiries in her ear,—and then tied them in a bow under his fat chin.
“There, Reginald, you’re perfectly lovely. Now if you’ll promise to sit perfectly still for five minutes, while the gentleman takes your picture, I’ll give your back my personal attention.” And she showed him the nutmeg-grater.
“Your goodness of heart is only exceeded by your beauty,” grunted the grateful pig as plainly as words could have said it. “Believe me, I shall always be responsive to your slightest wish.”
“I have an idea,” said the Poet. “If you will excuse me I will go and indite a Dissertation on a Pig That was Not Roasted.” And he disappeared into the house.