“Chang-Li-Ho? Who on earth is he? A Chinese laundryman?”
“No,” replied Griggs, unmoved. “He’s the greatest painter in the Chinese Empire. But then, you painters never seem to have heard of one another.”
“By Jove! that’s not fair, Griggs! Is he to be in the professional heaven, too?”
“I suppose so. There’ll probably be more Chinamen than New Yorkers there. They know a great deal more about art.”
“You’re getting deucedly sarcastic, Griggs,” observed Crowdie. “You’d better tell Miss Lauderdale more about the life to come. Your hobby can’t be tired yet, and if you ride him industriously, it will soon be time for luncheon.”
“We’d better have it at once if you two are going to quarrel,” suggested Hester, with a laugh.
“Oh, we never quarrel,” answered Crowdie. “Besides, I’ve got no soul, Griggs says, and he sold his own to the printer’s devil ages ago—so that the life to come is a perfectly safe subject.”
“What do you mean by saying that Walter has no soul?” asked Hester, looking up quickly at Griggs.
“My dear lady,” he answered, “please don’t be so terribly angry with me. In the first place, I said it in fun; and secondly, it’s quite true; and thirdly, it’s very lucky for him that he has none.”
“Are you joking now, or are you unintentionally funny?” asked Crowdie.