"It is a fault I'm not often guilty of; being funny never was my besetting sin," he answers, drily. "Essie, whenever you do go home, I have a great mind to go with you—if you will invite me."
"Oh, no, don't!" she cries, with involuntary eagerness, the pencil dropping from between her fingers.
"I believe you are ashamed of me," he says, angrily, walking off to the window to hide the flush of vexation which is invading his weather-worn cheeks.
"Ashamed of myself more likely," she cries, jumping up suddenly and following him.
"Why?"
"You fine gentlemen do not understand the
"'short and simple annals of the poor,'"
she answers, with a forced laugh. "You would probably be in the position of Mother Hubbard's singularly ill-used dog;
"When you came there,
The cupboard was bare.'"
"You think that gluttony, like gout, must be hereditary," says Gerard, laughing again, and yet looking very tender withal—not with the puling, milk-and-water tenderness of a green love-sick boy, but with the condensed, strong passion of a world-worn, world-tainted, half world-weary-grown man.