“Who,” inquired young Harrow, turning toward Lethbridge—“who is that duck?”
“You can search me,” replied Lethbridge in a low voice, “but for Heaven’s sake look
at those girls! Is it right to bunch such beauty and turn down Senators from Utah?”
Harrow’s dazzled eyes wandered over the six golden heads and snowy necks, lovely as six wholesome young goddesses fresh from a bath in the Hellespont.
“The—the one next to the one beside you,” whispered Lethbridge, edging around. “I want to run away with her. Would you mind getting me a hansom?”
“The one next to me has them all pinched to death,” breathed Harrow unsteadily. “Look!—when she isn’t looking. Did you ever see such eyes and mouth—such a superb free poise——”
“Sh-sh-h-h!” muttered Lethbridge, “the bell-mule is talking to them.”
“Art,” said the poet, leaning over to look along the line of fragrant, fresh young beauty, “Art is an art.” With which epigram he slowly closed his eyes.
He paused; his six tall and blooming daughters
two and two behind him.