“I guess they wanted to make sure they were admirin’ the right things,” ventured Mr. Wrenn, with secret terror.
“Yes, that’s so,” came so approvingly from the Greek chorus that the personal pupil of Mittyford, Ph.D., made his first epigram:
“It isn’t so much what you like as what you don’t like that shows if you’re wise.”
“Yes,” they gurgled; and Mr. Wrenn, much pleased with himself, smiled au prince upon his new friends.
Mrs. Stettinius was getting into her stride for a few remarks upon the poetry of industrialism when Mr. Gutch, who had been “Uh—”ing for some moments, trying to get in his remark, winked with sly rudeness at Miss Saxonby and observed:
“I fancy romance isn’t quite dead yet, y’ know. Our friends here seem to have had quite a ro-mantic little journey.” Then he winked again.
“Say, what do you mean?” demanded Bill Wrenn, hot-eyed, fists clenched, but very quiet.
“Oh, I’m not blaming you and Miss Nash—quite the reverse!” tittered the Gutch person, wagging his head sagely.
Then Bill Wrenn, with his fist at Mr. Gutch’s nose, spoke his mind:
“Say, you white-faced unhealthy dirty-minded lump, I ain’t much of a fighter, but I’m going to muss you up so’s you can’t find your ears if you don’t apologize for those insinuations.”