CHAPTER XXXIX
Love Plus Hippo
JUST as there are professional conversationalists and professional sponges, Miss Potterman was a professional beauty. There was nothing accidental or temporary about her. She was complete, perfect, and she knew her loveliness. After five years' triumphant progress in society she was accustomed to the petrifying effect of her sudden presence on a beauty-worshipping sex. She did not walk as other mortals walk, but floated in fragrantly and Skippy stood staring rock-still, as though Hippo had flashed the head of Medusa. None of which by the way was lost on the keenly observant Hippo.
"I beg pardon, I'm Skippy," he said shaking himself.
"Mr. Bedelle, isn't it?" said Miss Potterman in the tones that angels are supposed to employ.
Skippy saw no one else. In another moment he was seated on the window-seat entranced, dazed and blissfully content with his fate, docile as the rabbit in the presence of the boa constrictor.
"I'm so glad Corny is in your house," said Miss Potterman with a smile in the irresistible eyes. "You will watch over him, won't you, Mr. Bedelle?"
"Will I? You bet I will!"
"You see he's my only brother and we didn't want him to go to boarding school—not just yet. That is, mother and I. Dad insisted on it. I don't think he's always, well—quite appreciated Cornelius."
"I understand," said Skippy, averting his look. Even in the intoxication of her presence he could appreciate Dad.