“I’d taken Bengy Wade’s opinion without a moment’s hesitation on the length of a fox terrier’s tail, but a fan——”
“He wants to be considered artistic,” pleaded Miriam.
“And the last touch about St. Francis, wasn’t that a trifle overdone? Somewhat too thickly laid on? What used to be called by painters in a pre-impressionistic age—too great impasto. I am afraid that you are a little deteriorating.”
“Miriam!”
Both turned, and found a tall lady calling with as great animation as a due regard for the requirements of a statuesque pose permitted.
“I want to speak to you,” she exclaimed, as soon as words were possible. “I want you to come to my house to-morrow morning. I am going to have a little music. Emmeline is going to sing.”
“Oh!” cried Miriam.
“Don’t you like her singing?” the other inquired, earnestly.
“Oh, very much,” assured Miriam. “Only—the truth is, I once heard her sing Brunnhilde’s ‘Awakening,’ and she murdered it so horribly.”
“Emmeline is often too ambitious,” the other commented, with visible content.