"According to your account, he could not do better," said the doctor cynically.
"I suppose the world would get on, if he did," said Mr. Motley with philosophical coolness. "But the queerity was," he added, removing the cigar once more, "what made her look at us so? Did she know by her supernatural vision that we had not been to church?—for I must say, Linden, she looked like one of your kind. Or were her unearthly ears charmed by the account of your unearthly perfections?—for George and I were doing the thing handsomely."
"It was probably that," said Mr. Linden. "Few people, I think, can listen to your stories unmoved."
"Hang it," said Mr. Motley, "I wish I could!—This vixenish old craft is behaving with a great deal too much suavity to suit my notions. I don't care about making a reverence to every wave I meet if they're going to tower up at this rate. But I guess you're right, Linden—the description of you can be made quite captivating—and her cheeks glowed like damask roses with some sort of inspiration. However, as George pathetically and poetically remarks,
'I only know she came and went!'—
the last part of which illustrious example I shall follow. Linden, if any story don't move you, you're no better than the North Cape."
"Can you stand it?"—asked the doctor suddenly of his remaining companion.
"Yes—I have known Motley a long time."
"Pshaw! no, I mean this wind."
"I beg your pardon! Yes—for anything I have felt of it yet."