“I do, my angel. Madame is a lady of deep education, ma’am,” said Mr. Sagittarius, turning to Mrs. Merillia, who had been listening to the foregoing cross-examination with perpetually-increasing horror.
“No decent female should understand Greek or Latin,” roared Sir Tiglath at this point. “If she does she’s sure to read a great deal that she’s no business to know anything about.”
At this challenge Madame’s bulging brow was overcast with a red cloud.
“I beg to disagree, sir,” she exclaimed. “In my opinion the Georgics of Horatius, Homer’s Idyls and the satires of the great Juvenile—”
“The great what?” bellowed Sir Tiglath.
“The great Juvenile, sir.”
“There never was a great juvenile, ma’am. Talent must be mellow before it is worth tasting, whatever the modern whipper-snapper may say. There never was, and there never will be, a great juvenile—there can only be a juvenile preparing to be great.”
“Really, sir.”
“I affirm it, madam. And as you seem so mighty fond of Latin, remember what Horace says—Qui cupit opatam cursu contingere metam, Multa tulit fecitque puer, sudavit et alsit. Oh-h-h-h!”
And Sir Tiglath flung himself back in his chair, puffing out his enormous cheeks and wagging his gigantic head at Madame who, for once in her life, seemed entirely at a loss, and unable to call to her assistance a single shred of learning from the library of Dr. Carter.