“George, it is perfectly clear—that in one respect Arthur—is hopeless—Never, never, never—never in this world will he acquire the slightest sense of humor. Think of it! At this moment—with an old nutmeg-grater, he is scratching a pig’s back—with all the seriousness—and attention to detail—that he would give to a portrait of—the Empress of Russia—George, a little while ago I was angry with Arthur. I thought him stupid, self-sufficient, insufferable. But now, when I think of him out there—irreproachably attired—scratching Reginald’s back—with all the grave politeness—and earnestness—with which he would hand around cups of tea at one of Mrs. Van Rensellaer’s afternoons—I—I almost love him.”
“Galatea,” he said, without a trace of his customary solemn banter, “don’t you carry this thing too far with Arthur. He’s as good as gold. He’s a young man among a million.”
“George, Arthur is more than human. I won’t have it. He’s got to let himself down, like ordinary people.”
“He is a man of honor—honor that is deep-rooted, ancestral.”
“He is a slave to the perfectly correct forms endorsed by the Knickerbocker Club.”
“He is a gentleman. He lives in the country upon acres that are his own, and is a father to those who serve him.”
“He is sacred to the memory of ‘noblesse oblige,’ and he rubs it in.”
“Galatea, you are an impudent and improvident young woman. As your legal guardian I would feel justified in locking you in your room, and keeping you there until you could realize the blessings you have and the opportunities that are open to you.”
“George, you are becoming almost as stupid as Arthur is. I wouldn’t have thought it of you. Listen. I am going to reform Arthur. I admit he’s worth saving. It is hopeless ever to expect him to develop a sense of humor, but he shall at least cultivate a sympathetic interest in Bos, Equus and Co.”
She took from her desk and thrust into the Poet’s hands pencils and a sheet of Bristol board.
“Take these to Arthur, please. I’ll join you in a minute.”
The Poet shook his head doubtfully, but obeyed. The girl stood for a moment with her finger on her lip, smiling. Then she took from a work-basket needles and thread and a yard or two of faded pink ribbon, and, picking up a somewhat dilapidated specimen of the fluffy chiffon headgear which she affected, she returned demurely to the veranda where the Artist was still painstakingly exercising the nutmeg-grater on Reginald’s back. The pig lifted his nose and grunted in her face, with language that could not be misunderstood:—