“His wit has run dry,” Phœbe explained. “He opened the sluice too wide at first.”
“Oh, yes,” assented Jawn. “Her face is like the Tombs of the Pharaohs because there’s more wisdom within than the deepest archæologist can ever translate; because the best part of her is hieroglyphic; because it’s worth travelling ten thousand miles to see her; because she is built fit for a king; because no man knows the mystery of her creation, yet all wonder at the marvel of it; because—do you want any more?”
“I just wished to bring you out, Jawn,” Phœbe apologized. “I didn’t want the reputation of the race to languish. And thank you for the compliments. I’m so glad you didn’t say—because it looks so derned life-like and everybody knows it’s a dead one. But that would be a mummy, wouldn’t it, and not the Tomb of the Pharaohs?”
“If it had been a mummy,” said Jawn, “I might have said, because in spite of years of married life she is still so well preserved; or because——”
“That’s enough,” said Phœbe; “in a minute more you’ll be sayin’ somethin’ you’ll be ashamed of. Don’t forget, Jawn, that the Wells’ are very refined.”
“I was only going to say——” the light of deviltry was in Jawn’s eyes, warning enough to this country woman.
“I’m goin’!” she cried, and started from the room. “The boys have docked, I see, and they’ll be wantin’ food. It’s a word of warnin’ I’m tellin’ you, Jawn de Lancey Maguire—save all your piggy sayin’s for me who understands them, and don’t go makin’ me ashamed of you before the quality.”
She courtesied to Jerry and Mrs. Wells, threw a kiss to Jawn, and slipped away.
“It’s a sprite she is,” said Jawn, “a red-headed Irish fay.”
“She is a very great joy to us,” said Mrs. Wells deliberately. “And who would think she was ten years married and a widow! Phœbe hasn’t changed a mite since she was twenty.”