“Tom, my boy, I’m ready now.”
“Who is she, Jack?”
“You are out, Tom,” said Jack, severely.
“So is that medallion portrait, Jack, which has just escaped from your clerical coat.”
Jack caught up the medallion, and looking at it fondly, rose to his not over steady feet.
“Tom,” he said, “fill!”
I filled.
“Here’s to the flower of all maidens for beauty; the incomparable! the divine! Dorothy Jacob. Dorothy of my soul and heart.”
“She’s a Quaker, then,” said I.
“She’s a goddess, sir.”