—you will experience the delightful,—and unique, I may say,—sensation of being in the presence of a cultured, high-bred gentleman. They are most uncommon among shop-keepers in these days. This little Juneo is as common as dirt. He hasn't a shred of good-breeding. Utterly low-class Neapolitan person, I should say at a venture,—although I have never been by way of knowing any of the lower class Italians. They must be quite dreadful in their native gutters. Now, Mr. Moody,—but you shall see. Really, he is so splendid that one can almost imagine him in the House of Lords, or being privileged to sit down in the presence of the king, or— My word, Stuyvesant, what are you scowling at?"
"I'm not scowling," growled Stuyvesant, from the little side seat in front of them.
"He actually makes me feel sometimes as though I were dirt under his feet," went on Mrs. Smith-Parvis.
"Oh, come now, mother, you know I never make you feel anything of the—"
"I was referring to Mr. Moody, dear."
"Oh,—well," said he, slightly crestfallen.
Miss Emsdale suppressed a desire to giggle. Moody, a footman without the normal supply of aitches; Juneo, a nobleman with countless generations of nobility behind him!
The car drew up to the curb on the side street paralleling Pickett's. Another limousine had the place of vantage ahead of them.
"Blow your horn, Galpin," ordered Mrs. Smith-Parvis. "They have no right to stand there, blocking the way."
