"If I had put as much pains," I remembered his saying, "into any other thing I've set my hand to, I should be either a famous man, or a very rich one, to-day, Prentice."
And then, returning to the old grievance, that I could see had become a prepossession—
"And yet—six men can't be all wrong."
"Of course they can," I exclaimed indignantly, "and sixty."
He shrugged his shoulders wearily. "What can a man do, then?"
"One thing you can do," I answered severely, "is to sit down opposite me for a few hours a week and alter some of your modes of expression. I've made a list of some: Listen here!
"'Brightly shone the snow on the roof of the Rio Negro County Farmers' Institute.' You mustn't say that."
"Why not?" asked Paul, simply; "it's the name."
"If you don't know why, I can't tell you. You must take it from me that such a thing, in England, will almost secure rejection of itself. Then again: we don't talk of a man's 'white linen shirt bosom.' The word is de mode for a woman, but used for a man, it's offensive. And to say that Celia 'cached the mail-bags in a wash-out,' conveys no meaning at all to us."
Paul laughed out, and suddenly looked ten years younger.