"Just a damned goat," rippled Phyllis, her teeth shining like pearls, and her cheeks dimpling mischievously.
"A silly ass," ejaculated Adair with much self-contempt.
"Now, I want to tell you my idea," cried Phyllis. "We're going to pack up, poor booful disgraced genius--and wife (as they add on hotel registers); and we're going to count our poor little pennies, and take a tourist sleeper to New York, and get a little flat of the sort they rent to dormice in reduced circumstances, and live on air and kisses and hope--while poor Booful will go round telling everybody he's a reformed character, and looking for an engagement. And if the top all hates him, and if the middle is all full, why Booful will begin at the bottom, while Mrs. Booful will wash, and cook, and darn his socks--oh, no, listen,--yes, and darn his socks, and pet him when he is discouraged and cross, and keep everything scrupulously clean (in books if you're awfully poor, you're always scrupulously clean, haven't you noticed it)? Yes, scrupulously clean, and oh, so economical of every nickel till everybody begins to see that Booful isn't a damned goat, but a man of splendid talent, and up, up, up he'll go like a balloon, till there won't be a garbage-can without his name on it, or a bill-board without somebody "presenting" him in letters six feet high, and fame and money will pour in like a Niagara, and, and--Cyril, why shouldn't we?"
His look of indulgence and amusement had gradually changed to downright eagerness.
"If you can stand it, I can," he said.
"Oh, Cyril, I'm not afraid--let's do it!"
"We'll be starvation poor."
"But in a home of our own--no more of these horrid hotels, no more traveling, and something big to live and hope for."
"Those dormice flats are awfully squeezy--and dark."
"So's a robin's nest, for that matter."