and lumps those days!) why, I got me the real thing
in glad rags from the real thing in tailors, and I
used to blow a queen that’d been a swell herself
once, to the joint where the gilt-edged bunch eat and
show off their clothes and the rest of themselves.
My jane looked the part to the life, I had the kale
and the clothes and was chesty as a head-waiter, being
considerably stuck on yours truly along about then,
so we put it over. I had the chance to get hep
to the last word in clothes and manners; that’s
what I’d gone for, though I didn’t tell
that to the skirt I was buying the eats for.
And it was good business, too, for more than once
when some precinct bonehead that pipe-dreamed he was
a detective was pussy-catting some cold rat-hole,
there was me vanbibbering in the white light at the
swellest joints in little old New York! Funny,
wasn’t it? And handy! And I was learning,
too—learning things worth good money to
know. I saw that the best sort didn’t make
any noise about anything. They went about their
business, whatever it was, easy-easy, same as me in
my line. But, parson, though I’d got hep
to the outside, and had sense enough to copy what
I’d seen, I wasn’t wise to the inside difference—the
things that make the best what it is, I mean—because
I’d never been close enough to find out that
there’s more to it than looks and duds and manners.
It took the Parish House people to soak that into me.
People aren’t anything but people—but
the best are—well, different.”
We fell silent; a happy silence, into which, as from
another planet, there drifted light laughter, and
sweet gay voices of girls, and the stir and rustle
of many people moving about. On the Mayne fence
the judge’s black Panch sat, neck outstretched,
emerald eyes aslant, ears cocked uneasily at these
unwonted noises. At a little distance a bluejay
watched him with bright malevolent eyes, every now
and then screaming insults at the whole tribe of cats,
and black Panch in particular. Flint snapped
his fingers, and Panch, with a spring, was off the
fence and on his friend’s knees. It seemed
to me it had only needed the sleek beastie to make
that hour perfect;—for cats in the highest
degree make for a sense of homely, friendly intimacy.
Flint, feeling this, stroked the black head contentedly.
Panch purred for the three of us.
Into this presently broke Miss Sally Ruth Dexter,
and bore down on John Flint like a frigate with all
sails spread. At sight of her Panch spat and
fled, and took the happy spell with him.
“Here you are, cuddling that old pirate of a
black cat!” said she, briskly. “I
told Madame you’d be mooning about somewhere.
Here’s some cocoanut cake for you both.
Father, Madame’s been looking for you. Did
you know,” she sank her voice to a piercing whisper,
“that George Inglesby’s here? Well,
he is! He’s talking to Mary Virginia Eustis,
this very minute! They do say he’s running
after Mary Virginia, and I’m sure I wouldn’t