Horace, a round-shouldered blond whose high collar seemed to force his chin, not upward, but outward horizontally, fingered the ends of a frail mustache and asked:
“You mean that pigeon-toed fellow with the dark face?”
Miss Cabot could not help laughing. “There’s a summing up of your beauty,” she exclaimed, turning to the sculptor.
He smiled as he answered: “It is evident you are an admirer. But do you know who he is?”
“Yes, I know him.”
“Well, what is it? A Hindu prince, a Persian poet, or a simple corsair of the Adriatic?”
“He is a Connecticut farmer.”
“Never!”
“And his name is Judd—Amos Judd.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Miss Cabot. “What a come down! We hoped he was something more unusual than that.”