“I've done my best,” said the girl dispiritedly. “He's too big for little me.”
“Hm! You haven't told me yet where you got him.”
“'The wild wind blew him to my close-barred door,'” quoted the girl.
“A good many wild winds have blown about Cyrus Staten from time to time.”
“Who?”
“Cyrus Staten; don't you know him?”
“No, I picked him up from the bench in Our Square.”
“Which the Statens used to own, by the way. Well, the facilis descensus of an idle waster from the world of white lights and black shadows to a park-bench is nothing new.”
“Does he look like an idle waster?”
“He does not. Therein lies a miracle. What is he doing now?”