She began to laugh.
“Why—that’s a pertinent question. I think you might be rather nice, you know.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling ironically.
“Oh!” she said. “I know, you think you’re perfect, but you’re not, you’re very annoying.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Alice, who had entered the room again, dressed ready to depart. “He’s so blooming slow! Great whizz! Who wants fellows to carry cold dinners? Shouldn’t you like to shake him Lettie?”
“I don’t feel concerned enough,” replied the other, calmly.
“Did you ever carry a boiled pudding Georgy?” asked Alice with innocent interest, punching me slyly.
“Me!—why?—what makes you ask?” he replied, quite at a loss.
“Oh, I only wondered if your people needed any indigestion mixture—pa mixes it—1⁄1 ½ a bottle.”
“I don’t see” he began.
“Ta—ta, old boy, I’ll give you time to think about it. Good-night, Lettie. Absence makes the heart grow fonder—Georgy—of someone else. Farewell. Come along, Sybil love, the moon is shining—Good-night all, good-night!”
I escorted her home, while they continued to look at the pictures. He was a romanticist. He liked Copley, Fielding, Cattermole and Birket Foster; he could see nothing whatsoever in Girtin or David Cox. They fell out decidedly over George Clausen.
“But,” said Lettie, “he is a real realist, he makes
