Sometimes I wonder what Hawkins did for a victim before we met—but let that be.
Dinner had been lively, for the guests were mainly young, and the wines such as Hawkins can afford; but when we had assembled in the drawing-room, conversation seemed to slow down somewhat, and to pass over to a languid discussion of the house as a sort of relaxation.
Then it was that a pert miss from one of the Oranges remarked:
“Yes, the frescoing is lovely—almost all of it. But—whoever could have designed that frieze, Mr. Hawkins?”
“Er—that frieze?” repeated the inventor, a little uncomfortably, indicating the insane-looking strip of painting a foot or so wide which ran along under the ceiling.
“Yes, it's so funny. Nothing but dots and dots and dots. Whoever could have conceived such an idea?”
“Well, I did, Miss Mather,” Hawkins replied. “I designed that myself.”
“Oh, did you?” murmured the inquisitive one, going red.
Hawkins turned to me, and the girl subsided; but old Mr. Blodgett had overheard. He felt constrained to put in, with his usual tactful thought and grating, nasal voice:
“It's hideous—simply hideous. I don't see—I can't see the sense in spending that amount of money in plastering painted roses and undressed young ones all over the ceiling, Herbert.”