“Ah!” cried Elliott indignantly, “I suppose you put it to him in that way.”
“Not exactly,” grinned Clifford. Then more seriously, “I don’t want anything to occur here to bother him. He’s a brick and it’s a pity we can’t be more like him.”
“I am,” observed Elliott complacently, “only living with you———”
“Listen!” cried the other, “I have managed to put my foot in it in great style. Do you know what I’ve done?” Well—the first time I met him in the street,—or rather, it was in the Luxembourg, I introduced him to Valentine!”
“Did he object?”
“Believe me, said Clifford, solemnly, “this rustic Hastings has no more idea that Valentine is—is—in fact is Valentine, than he has that he himself is a beautiful example of moral decency in a Quarter where morals are as rare as elephants. I heard enough in a conversation between that blackguard Loffat and the little immoral eruption, Bowles, to open my eyes. I tell you Hastings is a trump! He’s a healthy, clean minded young fellow, bred in a small country village, brought up with the idea that saloons are way stations to hell—and as for women———”
“Well,” demanded Elliott.
“Well,” said Clifford, “his idea of the dangerous woman is probably a painted Jezabel.”
“Probably, replied the other.
“He’s a trump!” said Clifford, “and if he swears the world is as good and pure as his own heart, I'll swear he’s right.”
Elliott rubbed his charcoal on his file to get a point and turned to his sketch saying, “he will never hear any pessimism from Richard Osborne E.”
