“And Bosh from Berlin,” added Irais.
Minora stared. “I don’t think those two last ones would do,” she said, “because it is not to be a facetious book. But your first one is rather a good title,” she added, looking at Irais and drawing out her note-book. “I think I’ll just jot that down.”
“If you jot down all we say and then publish it, will it still be your book?” asked Irais.
But Minora was so busy scribbling that she did not hear.
“And have you no suggestions to make, Sage?” asked Irais, turning to the Man of Wrath, who was blowing out clouds of smoke in silence.
“Oh, do you call him Sage?” cried Minora; “and always in English?”
Irais and I looked at each other. We knew what we did call him, and were afraid Minora would in time ferret it out and enter it in her note-book. The Man of Wrath looked none too well pleased to be alluded to under his very nose by our new guest as “him.”
“Husbands are always sages,” said I gravely.
“Though sages are not always husbands,” said Irais with equal gravity. “Sages and husbands—sage and husbands—” she went on musingly, “what does that remind you of, Miss Minora?”
“Oh, I know,—how stupid of me!” cried Minora eagerly, her pencil in mid-air and her brain clutching at the elusive recollection, “sage and,—why,—yes,—no,—yes, of course—oh,” disappointedly, “but that’s vulgar—I can’t put it in.”