CHAPTER XXII.
"What do you think of her, Dan?" Bob asked as we drove toward home. "Tell me exactly what you think."
"She is beautiful, sir," I replied, "but somehow her features refuse to remain with me."
"They remain with me—black eyes, black hair, rose-leaf ears. She is an oration of the ancients set forth in nineteenth century flesh and blood."
"Yes, sir," I assented, with my mind on the old man, "but I don't think much of her stock, as Mr. Clem might say."
He snatched the lines from me, lashed the horse to a fierce trot, and looked at me as I sat with my hands fallen in idle submission. "Dan, what's the matter with you? You are getting to be a d—— cynic. Don't like her stock! I suppose you mean her father? He has had to work his way, no doubt, and may not have read as many fine books as certain fellows who have been pampered, but he is a gentleman. Do you hear me?" He lashed the horse. "Do you hear what I say?"
"If you say he is a gentleman, he is, Mars. Bob."
"But why the devil don't you make discoveries of your own?"