“No, my son, the uncanny thing is beneath our notice.”
Clarence looked at his mother in astonishment.
“The other time that evil-smelling red thing came swooping into our front yard,” he said, “you kicked two ribs out of it because you said it was a menace to our means of livelihood.”
“Hush, my son. Were they not compelled, after all, to rely on my services to get the thing off the premises? With a slight injury it had no more life in it than an ordinary buggy. I thought of this while I was dragging the clumsy affair to the blacksmith shop. No, my son, that sputtering red thing with the shocking bad breath is a false alarm. Our occupation is safe.”
Indeed, the Artist, as he gracefully turned his Red Ripper into the driveway and stopped near the veranda, was relieved to notice that its late enemies gave it only an indifferent glance. He was attired from top to toe in the most irreproachable new automobile togs, and in his buttonhole was an orchid of price—purple, shading delicately into pink. The Artist’s spirits appeared to be as high as his boutonnière was high-priced. It was as though some invisible herald had announced: “Lo, the bridegroom cometh.” The truth is, it was the Artist’s first visit since the day of Galatea’s impulsive act of penitence in the wood-road, and he still thrilled with the memory of the swift kiss she had left upon his cheek the instant before she sped away. All this was well enough; but it was impossible for the Artist not to blunder. His present blunder was in being over-confident in the memory of that kiss.
The moment the Poet’s mahogany-haired sister, in a trig costume of glossy white linen, including the prettiest of high-heeled little slippers, came out upon the veranda and cast her eye over the immaculate, exultant visitor, you would have been sorry for him—sorry that God had not gifted him with a modicum of subtlety in matters feminine.
“Good-morning, Arthur.”
Galatea’s voice was as cool as one of Amanda’s unplucked cucumbers.
Arthur sprang lightly up the steps, and, screened by the honeysuckle vine, seized her hand and kissed it ardently.
“Why, Arthur! Are you ill? Has the sun affected your head?”