“It certainly ends as every self-respecting and well-conducted story ought. But this old addle-pate hasn’t a spark of literary genius in it.”
“Oh, hasn’t it!” said Jim, bringing his fist upon the table. “George Sand is a fool to you, my dear.”
“Dear fellow,” said Jim’s mother, with a smile of pleasure. “At any rate I am enough of a genius to like appreciation. But with you, laddie, it is different. You are the real right thing, as dear Henry James would say.”
“Oh, am I?” said Jim. “Well, here’s to the Real Right Thing, whichever of us has it. I know which side of the table it is, if you don’t.”
“The Realest Rightest Thing is outside in the garden waiting for the hand of the master to complete her.”
“Ye gods, the hand of the master! You pile it on ‘a leetle beet tick,’ as Monsieur Gillet would say to you. But shall I tell you a secret? I saw the Goose Girl this morning.”
“Of course you did, dear boy.”
“How did you guess?”
“The step on the gravel told me.”
“You are wonderful, you know. Fancy your finding it out like that when I tried hard to tread heavily!”