“Robert,” said Burton, “I presume that you agree with me in holding the lack of punctuality to be one of the deadliest of the deadly sins?”
Bob scratched his head and appeared to be giving the matter serious consideration. But as he made no reply Burton continued, accepting silence for consent.
“It seems to me, Robert, that tardiness in plain, ordinary every-day mortals like you and me may be forgiven; I hope so for your sake; but a Princess—I may say the Princess!—Eh? You see the difference?”
“Yessah,” said Bob explosively.
“Of course,” Burton went on, seating himself in the chair and with difficulty getting his knees beneath the table, “of course, living in an Enchanted Castle it may be that one is not at liberty to come and go as we are, Robert. You follow me, I trust?”
“Y-yessah!”
“Thank you. I realize that there are times when my remarks possess a certain involution, as you might say, which persons with less penetration than you, Robert, might find confusing. It pleases me that you so thoroughly understand my remarks; your sympathetic attitude arouses my gratitude. That possibly sounds to your finely-trained ear like poetry, Robert, but I assure you that nothing of the sort was intended. So far I have not reached the condition when poetry becomes necessary for the expression of thought. When I do reach that phase of the malady—for love has been not inaptly termed a malady, you’ll remember—when I do, I say, your ears shall be the first to listen to my rhymed periods; that I promise you. But—no, thanks, I beg of you!”
