“Money is so unimportant!” the other girl announced disdainfully.
“Oh, my lady, nothing, a mere trifle. Comprenez, Monsieur Fifi,” Miss Parker mimicked the air of disdain, taking the little black spaniel into her lap. “C’est rien du tout, du tout, this matter of money. C’est une bagatelle, milady a dite. Que pensez-vous?”
“Au revoir, you child.” Miss Anthon kissed her.
“Bon jour, milady.”
Once out on the grey street, Miss Anthon turned to Wilbur for appreciation. “Well?”
“She’s a good girl,” Wilbur remarked abstractedly.
“That’s all!”
“That’s enough, isn’t it? She’s the sort to go through fire for one, and cook and sew and play with one, too. She’s about right.”
This explanation mollified Miss Anthon a little. “You make her out a companionable animal! Isn’t there anything more?”
“I guess so,” Wilbur replied, swinging his cane. Evidently neither Miss Parker nor women in general appealed to him just then. Miss Anthon watched his moody manner sympathetically. He touched her on sides little known to herself, awakening vague instincts, appealing to a primitive nature that did not lie far below the surface of her character. His practical sense, his imagination in material issues, his enjoyment of the hearty meal in daily life, pleased her. She liked the heavy frame, the square face with its ordinary plainness and healthy tints. His tolerance of fine-art tickled her humour. To him Erard’s profound seriousness over these matters of adornment was ridiculous; he never allowed any conventional appreciation to disturb him. The face value of the world, as he looked at it, was quite satisfactory.