“It has,” was the rejoinder. “But never so good as now.”
“I’ve often wondered—you seem to know so many things—where you got your education?”
“Here and there and everywhere. It’s only a patchwork sort of thing.” (Ungrateful young scoundrel, so to describe my two-hours-a-day of brain-hammering, and the free run of my library.)
“You’re a very puzzling person,” said she And when a woman says that to a man, deep has begun to call to deep. (The Bonnie Lassie, who knows everything, is my authority for the statement.)
To her went the patroness of Art, on leaving Julien’s “grenier” that day.
“Cecily,” she said, in the most casual manner she could contrive, “who is Julien Tenney?”
“Nobody.”
“You know what I mean,” pleaded the girl. “What is he?”
“A brand snatched from the pot-boiling,” returned the Bonnie Lassie, quite pleased with her next turn, which was more than her companion was.
“Please don’t be clever. Be nice and tell me—”