Part 3 (1/2)
”And there was the 'house beautiful,' mercifully screened by woods,”
continued Briggs. ”He calls it the house beautiful, you know.”
”Why not the beautiful house?” asked Wayne, still more coldly.
”Oh, he gets everything upside down. Guilford is harmless, you'll see.”
He began to whistle Fatinitza softly. There was a silence; then Wayne said:
”You interrupted your narrative.”
”Where was I?”
”In the foreground with eight pink pajamas in the middle distance.”
”Oh, yes. So there I was, travel-worn, thirsty, weary, uncertain----”
”Cut it,” observed Wayne.
”And a stranger,” continued Briggs with dignity, ”in a strange country----”
”Peculiarity of strangers.”
Briggs took no notice. ”I drank from the cool springs; I lingered to pluck a delicious berry or two, I bathed my hot face, I----”
”Where,” demanded Wayne, ”were the eight pink 'uns?”
”Still in the middle distance. Don't interrupt me, George; I'm slowly drawing closer to them.”
”Well, get a move on,” retorted Wayne sulkily.
”I'm quite close to them now,” explained Briggs; ”close enough to remove my hat and smile and inquire the way to Guilford's. One superb young creature, with creamy skin and very red lips----”
Wayne halted and set down his suit-case.
”I'm not romancing; you'll see,” said Briggs earnestly. ”As I was saying, this young G.o.ddess looked at me in the sweetest way and said that Guilford was her father. And, Wayne, do you know what she did?
She--er--came straight up to me and took hold of my hand, and led me up the path toward the high-art house, which is built of cobblestones!
Think! Built of cobble----”
”Took you by the hand?” repeated Wayne incredulously.
”Oh, it was all right, George! I found out all about that sort of innocent thing later.”
”Did you?”
”Certainly. These girls have been brought up like so many guileless speckled fawns out here in the backwoods. You know all about Guilford, the poet who's dead stuck on Nature and simplicity. Well, that's the man and that's his pose. He hasn't any money, and he won't work. His daughters raise vegetables, and he makes 'em wear bloomers, and he writes about chippy-birds and the house beautiful, and tells people to be natural, and wishes that everybody could go around without clothes and pick daisies----”
”Do _they_?” demanded Wayne in an awful voice. ”You _said_ they wore bloomers. Did you say that to break the news more gently? Did you!”
”Of course they are clothed,” explained his friend querulously; ”though sometimes they wade about without shoes and stockings and do the nymph business. And, George, it's astonis.h.i.+ng how modest that sort of dress is. And it's amazing how much they know. Why, they can talk Greek--_talk_ it, mind you. Every one of them can speak half a dozen languages--Guilford is a corker on culture, you know--and they can play harps and pianos and things, and give me thirty at tennis, even Chlorippe, the twelve-year-old----”