"No," said the girl, "all worthy aspirants enter the field of literature as orphans. Opportunity and Fates alone stand for them in loco parentis. And the child of these is known as Destiny."
"No cubist could beat that, Athalie," remarked Duane. "I'm ashamed of you—or proud—I don't know which."
"Dear child," she said, "you will never know the true inwardness of any sentiment you entertain concerning me until I explain it to you."
"Smitten again hip and thigh," said Stafford.[149] "Fair lady, I am far too wary to tell you what I think of the art of incoherence as practised occasionally by the prettiest Priestess in the Temple."
Athalie looked at me as the sweetmeat melted on her tongue.
"You promised me a dog," she remarked.
"I've picked him out. He'll be weaned in another week."
"What species of pup is he?" inquired Duane.
"An Iceland terrier," I answered. "They use them for digging out walrus and seals."
"Thank you," said Duane pleasantly.