I had an apt epigram on the subject of
Renaissance humour trembling on my pen-point, when Miss Griggs
came in with her foolish gossip. I am sure the platitude I wrote
afterwards is not that original flash of wit.
Carlotta entered and crossed the room to the side of my writing-
chair, her great dark eyes fixed on me, and her hands dutifully
behind her back. She looked a Greuze picture of innocence. I
believed less than ever in the enormity of the offence.
"Do you know what you're here for?" I asked, magisterially.
She nodded.
"Then you _have_ been making love to the young man from the
grocer's?"
She nodded again. I began to conceive a violent dislike to the
grocer's young man. It was one of the most humiliating
sensations I have experienced. I think I have seen the
individual--a thick-set, red-headed, freckled nondescript.
"What did you do it for?" I asked.
"He wanted to make love to me," replied Carlotta.
"He is a young scamp," said I.
"What is a scamp?" she asked sweetly.
"I am not giving you a lesson in philology," I remarked.
Pages:
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207