The mirthful side of her disposition was touched, and she laughed,—a bright little laugh like that of a happy child. The Philosopher straightened himself.
“That’s right!” he said, approvingly. “I like to hear you laugh! So much better than prancing on your high horse!”
She laughed again.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear!” she exclaimed. “For such a learned man, you are really very funny!”
“I hope so!” he answered. “Though ‘funny’ is scarcely the word—‘amusing’ would be more accurate. Learned men ought to be amusing; if they are not so they are invariably dull. Now I am never dull. My worst enemy could not accuse me of dulness,—if I had a wife she would find me an amusing husband.”
“Really!”
The Sentimentalist’s blue eyes were still twinkling with merriment.
“Yes,—really. And that is a great thing—for husbands, like wives, too often become monotonous. I wish”—here his voice sank again to plaintiveness—“I do wish I could find my pipe! Your father wants a game of billiards—”
“Where did you last have the pipe?” and the Sentimentalist rose from her chair and prepared to leave the room on a search for the mislaid “briar,” which was what the Philosopher wanted. “Have you looked in the pocket of your overcoat?”
“No,” here the Philosopher laid a detaining hand on her arm; “but I remember I had the overcoat on this morning when I met you and that young man in khaki. And you are not on your high horse any more?”