she warbled, rolling her r's and looking so fixedly at William that he seemed quite uneasy—he might, indeed, have been more uneasy had his French been equal to following the words of the song. Modern languages, however, like modern writers, do not appeal to him. They must be as dead as mutton before they can awaken his interest. If you want to see him roused to a perfect frenzy of enthusiasm you should see him arguing with Henry as to the comparative dramatic values of Homeric hexameters and Ionian iambics.
But to return to Gladys—or rather Gladys and William, for they remained inseparable for the remainder of the evening. He even accompanied her home, for I saw him dart forward (in his patent leather boots, too, which demanded slow movement on his part), when she rose to go, and hurry out to act as her escort.
A few days later he called in to see us for the sole purpose of inquiring about her. He pretended he wanted to borrow Ruskin's Munera Pulveris, but as he went away without the volume we saw how feeble was that pretext.
'With regard to—er—Miss Harringay,' he began, almost as soon as he arrived, 'I must say I consider her a remarkable young lady.'
'She is,' I said grimly.
'Would you believe it,' he went on, addressing himself to Henry, 'she is actually a Dr. Johnson enthusiast.'
'Nonsense!' ejaculated Henry.
'It's a fact. Isn't it unusual in one so young and—er—tender and timid that she recalls Keats' dissertation on woman, "she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats for man's protection."'
'Oh, so she's been bleating, has she?' I said cruelly.
'It makes it all the more astonishing that she should have leanings toward the study of serious literature.'