"I never saw a pretty monkey yet," said Mrs. Verulam meditatively.
"Boswell was."
"Who on earth was Boswell?"
"Huskinson's monkey. It fed out of his hand."
"How greedy!"
"He didn't think so. Well, I meant Huskinson to become good-tempered now. He had been angry for two months or more, and it was right there should be a little change. Besides, we were to be quite alone, we and Boswell, so that I didn't require him to be jealous, as I had in New York City. But Huskinson is the sort of man who can't stop when once he has got into the way of a thing. He must go right on with it, wherever he is. That isn't artistic. Now, is it, Daisy dear?"
"I suppose not—no."
"Well, in Florida he was just as he was in New York. That man would sit in a rocking-chair with Boswell on his knee or in his hair, and be as furiously jealous as Othello. Even that monkey couldn't soothe him. It was too monotonous. I told him so. But he didn't seem to see it. I said being abused and watching oranges grow was all right for a certain time, but if it continued for eternity I should wish I hadn't married."
"That was rather cruel."