The Eagle's Shadow · Chapter 6Eagle's Shadow (6)
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him--"not really, you know"--having argued the point out at some
length the night before, and reaching her conclusion by a course of
reasoning peculiar to herself.
Mr. Woods, as you may readily conceive, was sunk in the Slough of
Despond deeper than ever plummet sounded. Margaret thought this very
nice of him; it was a delicate tribute to her that he ate nothing;
and the fact that Hugh Van Orden and Petheridge Jukesbury--as she
believed--acted in precisely the same way for precisely the same
reason, merely demonstrated, of course, their overwhelming conceit and
presumption.
So sitting in the great Eagle's shadow, she ate a quantity of
marmalade--she was wont to begin the day in this ungodly English
fashion--and gossiped like a brook trotting over sunlit pebbles. She
had planned a pulverising surprise for the house-party; and in due
time, she intended to explode it, and subsequently Billy was to
apologise for his conduct, and then they were to live happily ever
afterward.
She had not yet decided what he was to apologise for; that was his
affair. His conscience ought to have told him, by this, wherein he had
offended; and if his conscience hadn't, why then, of course, he would
have to apologise for his lack of proper sensibility.
After breakfast she went, according to her usual custom, to her
father's rooms, for, as I think I have told you, the old gentleman was
never visible until noon. She had astonishing news for him.
What time she divulged it, the others sat on the terrace, and Mr.
Kennaston read to them, as he had promised, from his "Defense of
Ignorance." It proved a welcome diversion to more than one of the
party. Mr. Woods, especially, esteemed it a godsend; it staved off
misfortune for at least a little; so he sat at Kathleen's side in
silence, trying desperately to be happy, trying desperately not to see
the tiny wrinkles, the faint crow's feet Time had sketched in her face
as a memorandum of the work he meant to do shortly.
Billy consoled himself with the reflection that he was very fond of
her; but, oh (he thought), what worship, what adoration he could
accord this woman if she would only decline--positively--to have
anything whatever to do with him!
I think we ought not to miss hearing Mr. Kennaston's discourse. It is
generally conceded that his style is wonderfully clever; and I have
no doubt that his detractors--who complain that his style is mere
word-twisting, a mere inversion of the most ancient truisms--are
actuated by the very basest jealousy. Let us listen, then, and be duly
edified as he reads in a low, sweet voice, and the birds twitter about
him in the clear morning.
"It has been for many years," Mr. Kennaston began, "the custom of
patriotic gentlemen in quest of office to point with pride to the fact
that the schoolmaster is abroad in the land, in whose defense they
stand pledged to draw their salaries and fight to the last gasp
for reelection. These lofty platitudes, while trying to the lungs,
doubtless appeal to a certain class of minds. But, indeed, the
schoolmaster is not abroad; he is domesticated in every village in
America, where each hamlet has its would-be Shakespeare, and each
would-be Shakespeare has his 'Hamlet' by heart. Learning is rampant in
the land, and valuable information is pasted up in the streetcars so
that he who rides may read.
"And Ignorance--beautiful, divine Ignorance--is forsaken by a
generation that clamours for the truth. And what value, pray, has this
Truth that we should lust after it?"
He glanced up, in an inquiring fashion. Mr. Jukesbury, meeting his
eye, smiled and shook his head and said "Fie, fie!" very placidly.
To do him justice, he had not the least idea what Kennaston was
talking about.
"I am aware," the poet continued, with an air of generosity, "that
many pleasant things have been said of it. In fact, our decade has
turned its back relentlessly upon the decayed, and we no longer read
the lament over the lost art of lying issued many magazines ago by
a once prominent British author. Still, without advancing any Wilde
theories, one may fairly claim that truth is a jewel--a jewel with
many facets, differing in appearance from each point of view.
"And while 'Tell the truth and shame the Devil' is a very pretty
sentiment, it need not necessarily mean anything. The Devil, if there
be a personal devil--and it has been pointed out, with some show of
reason, that an impersonal one could scarcely carry out such enormous
contracts--would, in all probability, rather approve than otherwise of
indiscriminate truth-telling. Irritation is the root of all evil; and
there is nothing more irritating than to hear the truth about one's
self. It is bad enough, in all conscience, to be insulted, but the
truth of an insult is the barb that prevents its retraction. 'Truth
hurts' has all the pathos of understatement. It not only hurts, but
infuriates. It has no more right to go naked in public than any one
else. Indeed, it has less right; for truth-telling is natural to
mankind--as is shown by its prevalence among the younger sort, such as
children and cynics--and, as Shakespeare long ago forgot to tell us, a
touch of nature makes the whole world embarrassed."
At this point Mrs. Haggage sniffed. She considered he was growing
improper. She distrusted Nature.
"Truth-telling, then, may safely be regarded as an unamiable
indiscretion. In art, the bare truth must, in common gallantry, be
awarded a print petticoat or one of canvas, as the case may be, to
hide her nakedness; and in life, it is a disastrous virtue that we
have united to commend and avoid. Nor is the decision an unwise one;
for man is a gregarious animal, knowing that friendship is, at best,
but a feeble passion and therefore to be treated with the care due an
invalid. It is impossible to be quite candid in conversation with a
man; and with a woman it is absolutely necessary that your speech
should be candied.
"Truth, then, is the least desirable of acquaintances.
"But even if one wished to know the truth, the desire could scarcely
be fulfilled. Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam, a prominent lawyer of
Elizabeth's time, who would have written Shakespeare's plays had his
other occupations not prevented it, quotes Pilate as inquiring, 'What
is Truth?'--and then not staying for an answer. Pilate deserves all
the praise he has never received. Nothing is quite true. Even Truth
lies at the bottom of a well and not infrequently in other places. No
assertion is one whit truer than its opposite."
A mild buzz of protest rose about him. Kennaston smiled and cocked his
head on one side.
"We have, for example," he pointed out, "a large number of proverbs,
the small coin of conversation, received everywhere, whose value no
one disputes. They are rapped forth, like an oath, with an air of
settling the question once and forever. Well! there is safety in
quotations. But even the Devil can cite Shakespeare for his purpose.
'Never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day' agrees ill with
'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof'; and it is somewhat
difficult to reconcile 'Take care of the pence, and the pounds will
take care of themselves' with the equally familiar 'Penny-wise,
pound-foolish.' Yet the sayings are equally untrue; any maxim is,
perforce, a general statement, and therefore fallacious, and therefore
universally accepted. Art is long, and life is short, but the
platitudes concerning them are both insufferable and eternal. We must
remember that a general statement is merely a snap-shot at flying
truth, an instantaneous photograph of a moving body. It may be the way
that a thing is; but it is never the way in which any one ever saw
that thing, or ever will. This is, of course, a general statement.
"As to present events, then, it may be assumed that no one is either
capable or desirous of speaking the truth; why, then, make such
a pother about it as to the past? There we have carried the
investigation of truth to such an extreme that nowadays very few of us
dare believe anything. Opinions are difficult to secure when a quarter
of an hour in the library will prove either side of any question.
Formerly, people had a few opinions, which, if erroneous, were at
least universal. Nero was not considered an immaculate man. The Flood
was currently believed to have caused the death of quite a number of
persons. And George Washington, it was widely stated, once cut down
a cherry-tree. But now all these comfortable illusions have been
destroyed by 'the least little men who spend their time and lose their
wits in chasing nimble and retiring truth, to the extreme perturbation
and drying up of the moistures.'"
Kennaston looked up for a moment, and Billy Woods, who had counted
seven wrinkles and was dropping into a forlorn doze, started
violently. His interest then became abnormal.
"There are," Mr. Kennaston complained, rather reproachfully, "too many
inquiries, doubts, investigations, discoveries, and apologies. There
are palliations of Tiberius, eulogies of Henry VIII., rehabilitations
of Aaron Burr. Lucretia Borgia, it appears, was a grievously
misunderstood woman, and Heliogabalus a most exemplary monarch; even
the dog in the manger may have been a nervous animal in search of
rest and quiet. As for Shakespeare, he was an atheist, a syndicate, a
lawyer's clerk, an inferior writer, a Puritan, a scholar, a
nom de plume
, a doctor of medicine, a fool, a poacher, and another man of
the same name. Information of this sort crops up on every side. Even
the newspapers are infected; truth lurks in the patent-medicine
advertisements, and sometimes creeps stealthily into the very
editorials. We must all learn the true facts of history, whether we
will or no; eventually, the writers of historical romance will not
escape.
"So the sad tale goes. Ignorance--beautiful, divine Ignorance--is
forsaken by a generation that clamours for the truth. The
earnest-minded person has plucked Zeus out of Heaven, and driven the
Maenad from the wood, and dragged Poseidon out of his deep-sea palace.
The conclaves of Olympus, it appears, are merely nature-myths;
the stately legends clustering about them turn out to be a rather
elaborate method of expressing the fact that it occasionally rains.
The heroes who endured their angers and jests and tragic loves are
delicately veiled allusions to the sun--surely, a very harmless topic
of conversation, even in Greece; and the monsters, 'Gorgons and Hydras
and Chimæras dire,' their grisly offspring, their futile opponents,
are but personified frosts. Mythology--the poet's necessity, the
fertile mother of his inventions--has become a series of atmospheric
phenomena, and the labours of Hercules prove to be a dozen weather
bulletins.
"Is it any cause for wonder, that under this cheerless influence our
poetry is either silent or unsold? The true poet must be ignorant, for
information is the thief of rhyme. And it is only in dealing with--"
Kennaston paused. Margaret had appeared in the vestibule, and behind
her stood her father, looking very grave.
"We have made a most interesting discovery," Miss Hugonin airily
announced to the world at large. "It appears that Uncle Fred left all
his property to Mr. Woods here. We found the will only last night. I'm
sure you'll all be interested to learn I'm a pauper now, and intend to
support myself by plain sewing. Any work of this nature you may
choose to favour me with, ladies and gentlemen, will receive my most
earnest
attention."
She dropped a courtesy. The scene appealed to her taste for the
dramatic.
Billy came toward her quickly.
"Peggy," he demanded of her, in the semi-privacy of the vestibule,
"will you kindly elucidate the meaning of this da--this idiotic
foolishness?"
"Why, this," she explained, easily, and exhibited a folded paper. "I
found it in the grate last night."
He inspected it with large eyes. "That's absurd," he said, at length.
"You know perfectly well this will isn't worth the paper it's written
on."
"My dear sir," she informed him, coldly, "you are vastly mistaken. You
see, I've burned the other one." She pushed by him. "Mr. Kennaston,
are you ready for our walk? We'll finish the paper some other time.
Wasn't it the strangest thing in the world--?" Her dear, deep, mellow
voice died away as she and Kennaston disappeared in the gardens.
Billy gasped.
But meanwhile, Colonel Hugonin had given the members of his daughter's
house-party some inkling as to the present posture of affairs. They
were gazing at Billy Woods rather curiously. He stood in the vestibule
of Selwoode, staring after Margaret Hugonin; but they stared at him,
and over his curly head, sculptured above the door-way, they saw the
Eagle--the symbol of the crude, incalculable power of wealth.
Mr. Woods stood in the vestibule of his own house.
XVII
"By gad!" said Colonel Hugonin, very grimly, "anybody would think
you'd just lost a fortune instead of inheriting one! Wish you joy of
it, Billy. I ain't saying, you know, we shan't miss it, my daughter
and I--no, begad, for it's a nice pot of money, and we'll miss it
damnably. But since somebody had to have it, I'd much rather it was
you, my boy, than a set of infernal, hypocritical, philanthropic
sharks, and I'm damn' glad Frederick has done the square thing by
you--yes, begad!"
The old gentleman was standing beside Mr. Woods in the vestibule of
Selwoode, some distance from the other members of the house-party,
and was speaking in confidence. He was sincere; I don't say that
the thought of facing the world at sixty-five with practically
no resources save his half-pay--I think I have told you that the
Colonel's diversions had drunk up his wife's fortune and his own like
a glass of water--I don't say that this thought moved him to hilarity.
Over it, indeed, he pulled a frankly grave face.
But he cared a deal for Billy; and even now there was balm--soothing,
priceless balm--to be had of the reflection that this change in
his prospects affected materially the prospects of those cultured,
broad-minded, philanthropic persons who had aforetime set his daughter
to requiring of him a perusal of Herbert Spencer.
Billy was pretty well aware how monetary matters stood with the old
wastrel; and the sincerity of the man affected him far more than the
most disinterested sentiments would have done. Mr. Woods accordingly
shook hands, with entirely unnecessary violence.
"You're a trump, that's what you are!" he declared; "oh, yes, you are,
Colonel! You're an incorrigible, incurable old ace of trumps--the
very best there is in the pack--and it's entirely useless for you to
attempt to conceal it."
"Gad----!" said the Colonel.
"And don't you worry about that will," Mr. Woods advised. "I--I can't
explain things just now, but it's all right. You just wait--just wait
till I've seen Peggy," Billy urged, in desperation, "and I'll explain
everything."
"By gad----!" said the Colonel. But Mr. Woods was half-way out of the
vestibule.
Mr. Woods was in an unenviable state of perturbation.
He could not quite believe that Peggy had destroyed the will; the
thing out-Heroded Herod, out-Margareted Margaret. But if she had,
it struck him as a high-handed proceeding, entailing certain
vague penalties made and provided by the law to cover just such
cases--penalties of whose nature he was entirely ignorant and didn't
care to think. Heavens! for all he knew, that angel might have let
herself in for a jail sentence.
Billy pictured that queen among women! that paragon! with her glorious
hair cropped and her pink-tipped little hands set to beating hemp--he
had a shadowy notion that the lives of all female convicts were
devoted to this pursuit--and groaned in horror.
"In the name of Heaven!" Mr. Woods demanded of his soul, "what
possible
reason could she have had for this new insanity? And in the
name of Heaven, why couldn't she have put off her
tête-à-tête
with
Kennaston long enough to explain? And in the name of Heaven, what does
she see to admire in that putty-faced, grimacing ass, any way! And in
the name of Heaven, what am I to say to this poor, old man here? I
can't explain that his daughter isn't in any danger of being poor, but
merely of being locked up in jail! And in the name of Heaven, how
long does that outrageous angel expect me to remain in this state of
suspense!"
Billy groaned again and paced the vestibule. Then he retraced his
steps, shook hands with Colonel Hugonin once more, and, Kennaston or
no Kennaston, set out to find her.
XVIII
But when he came out upon the terrace, Sarah Ellen Haggage stopped
him--stopped him with a queer blending of diffidence and resolve in
her manner.
The others, by this, had disappeared in various directions, puzzled
and exceedingly uncertain what to do. Indeed, to congratulate Billy
in the Colonel's presence would have been tactless; and, on the other
hand, to condole with the Colonel without seeming to affront the
wealthy Mr. Woods was almost impossible. So they temporised and
fled--all save Mrs. Haggage.
She, alone, remained to view Mr. Woods with newly opened eyes; for
as he paused impatiently--the sculptured Eagle above his head--she
perceived that he was a remarkably handsome and intelligent young man.
Her motherly heart opened toward this lonely, wealthy orphan.
"My dear Billy," she cooed, with asthmatic gentleness, "as an old,
old friend of your mother's, aren't you going to let me tell you how
rejoiced Adèle and I are over your good fortune? It isn't polite, you
naughty boy, for you to run away from your friends as soon as they've
heard this wonderful news. Ah, such news it was--such a manifest
intervention of Providence! My heart has been fluttering, fluttering
like a little bird, Billy, ever since I heard it."
In testimony to this fact, Mrs. Haggage clasped a stodgy hand to an
exceedingly capacious bosom, and exhibited the whites of her eyes
freely. Her smile, however, remained unchanged and ample.
"Er--ah--oh, yes! Very kind of you, I'm sure!" said Mr. Woods.
"I never in my life saw Adèle so deeply affected by
anything
," Mrs.
Haggage continued, with a certain large archness. "The sweet child
was always so fond of you, you know, Billy. Ah, I remember distinctly
hearing her speak of you many and many a time when you were in that
dear, delightful, wicked Paris, and wonder when you would come back
to your friends--not very grand and influential friends, Billy, but
sincere, I trust, for all that."
Mr. Woods said he had no doubt of it.
"So many people," she informed him, confidentially, "will pursue you
with adulation now that you are wealthy. Oh, yes, you will find that
wealth makes a great difference, Billy. But not with Adèle and
me--no, dear boy, despise us if you will, but my child and I are not
mercenary. Money makes no difference with us; we shall be the same to
you that we always were--sincerely interested in your true welfare,
overjoyed at your present good fortune, prayerful as to your brilliant
future, and delighted to have you drop in any evening to dinner. We do
not consider money the chief blessing of life; no, don't tell me that
most people are different, Billy, for I know it very well, and many is
the tear that thought has cost me. We live in a very mercenary world,
my dear boy; but
our
thoughts, at least, are set on higher things,
and I trust we can afford to despise the merely temporal blessings of
life, and I entreat you to remember that our humble dwelling is always
open to the son of my old, old friend, and that there is always a jug
of good whiskey in the cupboard."
Thus in the shadow of the Eagle babbled the woman whom--for all her
absurdities--Margaret had loved as a mother.
Billy thanked her with an angry heart.
"And this"--I give you the gist of his meditations--"this is Peggy's
dearest friend! Oh, Philanthropy, are thy protestations, then, all
void and empty, and are thy noblest sentiments--every one of 'em--so
full of sound and rhetoric, so specious, so delectable--are these,
then, but dicers' oaths!"
Aloud, "I'm rather surprised, you know," he said, slowly, "that you
take it just this way, Mrs. Haggage. I should have thought you'd have
been sorry on--on Miss Hugonin's account. It's awfully jolly of you,
of course--oh, awfully jolly, and I appreciate it at its true worth, I
assure you. But it's a bit awkward, isn't it, that the poor girl will
be practically penniless? I really don't know whom she'll turn to
now."
Then Billy, the diplomatist, received a surprise.
"She'll come with me, of course," said Mrs. Haggage.
Mr. Woods made an--unfortunately--inaudible observation.
"I beg your pardon?" she queried. Then, obtaining no response, she
continued, with perfect simplicity: "Margaret's quite like a daughter
to me, you know. Of course, she and the Colonel will come with us--at
least, until affairs are a bit more settled. Even afterward--well, we
have a large house, Billy, and I don't see that they'd be any better
off anywhere else."
Billy's emotions were complex.
"You big-hearted old parasite," his own heart was singing. "If you
could only keep that ring of truth that's in your voice for your
platform utterances--why, in less than no time you could afford to
feed your Afro-Americans on nightingales' tongues and clothe every
working-girl in the land in cloth of gold! You've been pilfering from
Peggy for years--pilfering right and left with both hands! But you've
loved her all the time, God bless you; and now the moment she's in
trouble you're ready to take both her and the Colonel--whom, by the
way, you must very cordially detest--and share your pitiful, pilfered
little crusts with 'em and--having two more mouths to feed--probably
pilfer a little more outrageously in the future! You're a
sanctimonious old hypocrite, you are, and a pious fraud, and a
delusion, and a snare, and you and Adèle have nefarious designs on me
at this very moment, but I think I'd like to kiss you!"
Indeed, I believe Mr. Woods came very near doing so. She loved Peggy,
you see; and he loved every one who loved her.
But he compromised by shaking hands energetically, for a matter of
five minutes, and entreating to be allowed to subscribe to some of her
deserving charitable enterprises--any one she might mention--and so
left the old lady a little bewildered, but very much pleased.
She decided that for the future Adèle must not see so much of Mr.
Van Orden. She began to fear that gentleman's views of life were not
sufficiently serious.
XIX
Billy went into the gardens in pursuit of Margaret. He was almost
happy now and felt vaguely ashamed of himself. Then he came upon
Kathleen Saumarez, who, indeed, was waiting for him there; and his
heart went down into his boots.
He realised on a sudden that he was one of the richest men in America.
It was a staggering thought. Also, Mr. Woods's views, at this moment,
as to the advantages of wealth, might have been interesting.
Kathleen stood silent for an instant, eyes downcast, face flushed. She
was trembling.
Then, "Billy," she asked, almost inaudibly, "do--do you still
want--your answer?"
The birds sang about them. Spring triumphed in the gardens. She looked
very womanly and very pretty.
To all appearances, it might easily have been a lover and his lass met
in the springtide, shamefaced after last night's kissing. But Billy,
somehow, lacked much of the elation and the perfect content and the
disposition to burst into melody that is currently supposed to seize
upon rustic swains at such moments. He merely wanted to know if at
any time in the remote future his heart would be likely to resume the
discharge of its proper functions. It was standing still now.
However, "Can you ask--dear?" His words, at least, lied gallantly.
The poor woman looked up into Billy's face. After years of battling
with the world, here for the asking was peace and luxury and wealth
incalculable, and--as Kathleen thought--a love that had endured since
they were boy and girl together. Yet she shrunk from him a little and
clinched her hands before she spoke.
"Yes," Kathleen faltered, and afterward she shuddered.
And here, if for the moment I may prefigure the Eagle as a sentient
being, I can imagine his chuckle.
"Please God," thought poor Billy, "I will make her happy. Yes, please
God, I can at least do that, since she cares for me."
Then he kissed her.
"My dear," said he, aloud, "I'll try to make you happy. And--and you
don't mind, do you, if I leave you now?" queried this ardent lover.
"You see, it's absolutely necessary I should see--see Miss Hugonin
about this will business. You don't mind very much, do you--darling?"
Mr. Woods inquired of her, the last word being rather obviously an
afterthought.
"No," said she. "Not if you must--dear."
Billy went away, lugging a heart of lead in his breast.
Kathleen stared after him and gave a hard, wringing motion of her
hands. She had done what many women do daily; the thing is common and
sensible and universally commended; but in her own eyes, the draggled
trollop of the pavements was neither better nor worse than she.
At the entrance of the next walkway Billy encountered Felix
Kennaston--alone and in the most ebulliently mirthful of humours.
XX
But we had left Mr. Kennaston, I think, in company with Miss Hugonin,
at the precise moment she inquired of him whether it were not the
strangest thing in the world--referring thereby to the sudden manner
in which she had been disinherited.
The poet laughed and assented. Afterward, turning north from the front
court, they descended past the shield-bearing griffins--and you may
depend upon it that each shield is adorned with a bas-relief of the
Eagle--that guard the broad stairway leading to the formal gardens
of Selwoode. The gardens stretch northward to the confines of Peter
Blagden's estate of Gridlington; and for my part--unless it were that
primitive garden that Adam lost--I can imagine no goodlier place.
On this particular forenoon, however, neither Miss Hugonin nor Felix
Kennaston had eyes for its comeliness; silently they braved the
griffins, and in silence they skirted the fish-pond--silver-crinkling
in the May morning--and passed through cloistral ilex-shadowed walks,
and amphitheatres of green velvet, and terraces ample and mellow
in the sunlight, silently. The trees pelted them with blossoms;
pedestaled in leafy recesses, Satyrs grinned at them apishly, and the
arrows of divers pot-bellied Cupids threatened them, and Fauns piped
for them ditties of no tone; the birds were about shrill avocations
overhead, and everywhere the heatless, odourful air was a caress; but
for all this, Miss Hugonin and Mr. Kennaston were silent and very
fidgetty.
Margaret was hatless--and the glory of the eminently sensible spring
sun appeared to centre in her hair--and violet-clad; and the gown,
like most of her gowns, was all tiny tucks and frills and flounces,
diapered with semi-transparencies--unsubstantial, foam-like, mere
violet froth. As she came starry-eyed through the gardens, the
impudent wind trifling with her hair, I protest she might have been
some lady of Oberon's court stolen out of Elfland to bedevil us poor
mortals, with only a moonbeam for the changeable heart of her, and
for raiment a violet shadow spirited from the under side of some big,
fleecy cloud.
They came presently through a trim, yew-hedged walkway to a
summer-house covered with vines, into which Margaret peeped and
declined to enter, on the ground that it was entirely too chilly
and gloomy and
exactly
like a mausoleum; but nearby they found a
semi-circular marble bench about which a group of elm-trees made a
pleasant shadow splashed at just the proper intervals with sunlight.
On this Margaret seated herself; and then pensively moved to the other
end of the bench, because a slanting sunbeam fell there. Since it
was absolutely necessary to blast Mr. Kennaston's dearest hopes,
she thoughtfully endeavoured to distract his attention from his own
miseries--as far as might be possible--by showing him how exactly like
an aureole her hair was in the sunlight. Margaret always had a kind
heart.
Kennaston stood before her, smiling a little. He was the sort of man
to appreciate the manoeuver.
"My lady," he asked, very softly, "haven't you any good news for me on
this wonderful morning?"
"Excellent news," Margaret assented, with a cheerfulness that was
not utterly free from trepidation. "I've decided not to marry you,
beautiful, and I trust you're properly grateful. You see, you're very
nice, of course, but I'm going to marry somebody else, and bigamy is
a crime, you know; and, anyhow, I'm only a pauper, and you'd never be
able to put up with my temper--now, beautiful, I'm quite sure you
couldn't, so there's not a bit of use in arguing it. Some day you'd