“I simply include Mrs. Monroe, because it is impossible to leave her out. She is so accustomed to mixing in things.”
“I suppose they will live abroad pretty much,” Philip said. “It's the place for Franz.”
“I say,” Perkins burst out blankly, “that's so, isn't it? You know she thinks him a great composer.”
“And so he is,” Philip replied.
Perkins gazed at him mournfully, blinking his eyes, and when he spoke it was in gloomy accents.
“He will take her away, won't he? Having her here forever is all up. Do you know I hadn't thought of that—not till this minute. Really, it very much distresses me, just the mere thought.” Vouching for the truth of what he said, a tear trickled languidly down his nose, and after hanging reluctant upon its very tip as though undecided as to its ultimate course, fell to his clasped hands where it glistened like a dewdrop in May.
“I—this is very overpowering. I had lost sight of the future entirely in my great pleasure at what has taken place. Bless me! I never speculated on the results—never once.”
He raised his glance pathetically to his friend's face. “It's a damn poor showing for cousins, isn't it?”
The round face with its stubby fringe and blinking eyes shaded by their colorless lashes destroyed Philip's gravity.
“Why don't you get them to adopt you?” he said.