“Be quiet! Ever since Aunt Lora got hold of you, I say, you have become a sort of gramophone, spouting her opinions.” 

 “But what sensible opinions!” 

 “It’s got to stop. Aunt Lora! My God! Who is she? Just look at her record. She disgraces the family by marrying a grubby newspaper fellow called Porter. He has the sense to die. I will say that for him. She thrusts herself into public notice by a series of books and speeches on subjects of which a decent woman ought to know nothing. And now she gets hold of you, fills you up with her disgusting nonsense, makes a sort of disciple of you, gives you absurd ideas, poisons your mind, and—er—er——” 

 “Bailey! This is positive eloquence!” 

 “It’s got to stop. It’s bad enough in her; but every one knows she is crazy, and makes allowances. But in a young girl like you.” 

 He choked. 

 “In a young girl like me,” prompted Ruth in a low, tragic voice. 

 “It—it’s not right. It—it’s not proper.” He drew a long breath. “It’s all wrong. It’s got to stop.” 

 “He’s perfectly wonderful!” murmured Ruth. “He just opens his mouth and the words come out. But I knew he was somebody, directly I saw him, by his forehead. Like a dome!” Bailey mopped the dome. 

 “Perhaps you don’t know it,” he said, “but you’re getting yourself talked about. You go about saying perfectly impossible things to people. You won’t marry. You have refused nearly every friend I have.” 

 Ruth shuddered. 

 “Your friends are awful, Bailey. They are all turned out on a pattern, like a flock of sheep. They bleat. They have all got little, narrow faces without chins or big, fat faces without foreheads. Ugh!” 

 “None of them good enough for you, is that it?” 

 “Not nearly.” 

 Emotion rendered Bailey—for him—almost vulgar. 

 “I guess you hate yourself!” he snapped. 

 Prev. P 19/231 next