"Very well, Mr. Peters," said I. "I will respect your wishes. Why did you go to South Africa?"
"After color. I am writing a new book, and I needed color. There are more colored people in Africa than anywhere else. Wherefore—"
"I see," said I. "And did you get it?"
"Humph!" he sneered. "Did I get it? It is evident, madam, that you have not closely studied the career of Rudyard—er—Peters. Did he ever fail to get anything he wanted?"
"I don't know," I replied. "That's what I wanted to find out."
"Well, you may draw your own conclusions," he retorted, "when I speak that beautiful and expressive American word 'Nit.'"
I put the word down for future use. It is always well for an American to make use of her own language as far as is possible, and nowhere can one gain a better idea of what is distinctively American than from a study of English authors who use Americanisms with an apology—paid for, no doubt, at space rates.
"Have you been at work on the ocean?" I inquired.
"No," said he. "Why should I work on the ocean? I can't improve the ocean."
"Excuse me," said I. "I didn't know that you were a purist."