“He doesn’t look quite so musty,” said Dicky, reflectively. “Did it ever seem strange to you, Mr. French, that a pretty girl like Deena could marry Mr. Ponsonby?”
“He is a very distinguished man,” Stephen replied, in an agony of embarrassment. “You ought to appreciate what an honor it is to be connected by marriage with Professor Ponsonby.”
“We ain’t intimate,” said Dicky, lightly, and his tone betrayed how much Simeon was the loser by a restricted intercourse.
“One of these days when you are a little older you will be very proud of his reputation,” Stephen protested.
Dicky walked to the end of the great Persian rug on the blue pattern—it was evidently a point of honor to avoid the red—before he answered:
“Well, I’m blamed glad he’s gone away, anyhow.” And then, to French’s relief, Marble came and announced in his unctuous voice:
“The tray is in the library, sir,” and all thought of Simeon was abandoned.
That feast at Stephen’s lived in Dicky’s memory for years. It supported him through the disappointments of many a dessertless dinner—in the hopeless fancy engendered by seeing sweets pressed to the lips of others; it won for him an easy victory in times of gustatory boasting when at school. He could affirm, with truth, that for once he had had his fill of the very best.
With Stephen also the experience was a revelation. The capacity of his guest caused him amazement mingled with fear.
And still he gazed
And still the wonder grew
That one small boy
Could hold all he could chew.