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"
"He never repaid you?" I asked.
"For a humouristic philosopher," cried Judith, "you are
delicious!"
Judith is too fond of that word "delicious." She uses it in
season and out of season.
We have the richest language that ever a people has accreted, and
we use it as if it were the poorest. We hoard up our infinite
wealth of words between the boards of dictionaries and in speech
dole out the worn bronze coinage of our vocabulary. We are the
misers of philological history. And when we can save our pennies
and pass the counterfeit coin of slang, we are as happy as if we
heard a blind beggar thank us for putting a pewter sixpence into
his hat.
I said something of the sort to Judith, after she had resumed her
seat and I had opened the window, the minstrel having wandered to
the next hostelry, where the process of converting "Love's Sweet
Dream" into a nightmare was still faintly audible. Judith looked
at me whimsically, as I stood breathing the comparatively fresh
air and enjoying the relative silence.


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