“Poor old Syd,” she beamed, “he doesn’t know what he’s in for.” And Sydney, coming through the laboratory door with a microscope slide in one hand and a bottle of red colouring fluid in the other, put up his mouth for the customary salutation.
“No more of that, old fellow. I’m a young lady now. Besides you’re going to be my preceptor, and it’s bad form for the dominie to kiss his pupils. You’re to teach Judith and me, and you couldn’t bestow osculations on one and not on the other. Now could you?”
“I should think Judith would be lovely to kiss.”
“She is ... but you and Lary can’t go out in the alley and fight duels. And while we are on the subject—you and Papa Schubert are ages behind the times—with all your X-rays and bacteriological tests. In Europe they have decided that kissing is unsanitary. Disease germs are carried that way.”
“Yes,” the elder assented, “the dangerous little amorococcus is usually conveyed from lip to lip.”
Syd changed the subject. He had never been seriously touched by love. But he thought the shaft of his father’s playful humour might carry a poisoned barb for the girl. He demanded, with a grimace:
“Why don’t you take me into your confidence about the preceptorship? What do you need to learn ... after Brussels and Paris?”
“We had thought about Latin—and anything else you happen to have in your system that would help us to shine as intellectuals. But, seriously, Syd, I want you to do one thing for me. Get this teaching idea across to me. You remember how you gave me the legato—when Prexie Irwin was making us whack the strings with the bow—everything jumpy staccato, don’t you remember? And how you showed me, in five minutes, how to produce the singing tones? I know how to do it; but you’ll have to show me how to teach the other fellow.”
IV
When the door had closed behind her, Dr. Schubert said jubilantly: