“Drop it,” said the solicitor, roguishly pinching her ear. “Beware of dangerous turnings, my son. She is quite prepared to play George Sand to anybody’s Alfred de Musset. She even does it to the greengrocer when he comes round with his barrow. I understand they discourse divinely together upon the subject of cabbages.” “But Witty is too much the man of the world to be jealous about it,” she purred. “If Pussy hasn’t the opportunity to sharpen her claws on a sofa or an ottoman, she doesn’t mind a wicker-work chair.” “Witty, darling,” said the lady, “I hate to find rudeness keeping company with real distinction of mind.” “Upon my word,” expostulated Northcote, seeking to measure her depth, “I consider that rebuke to be much prettier than the one bestowed upon me.” “When, Mr. Northcote, did I rebuke you?” “Did you not say I should amuse you enormously?” “Is not that the only compliment a woman has the power to pay nowadays?” “Yes, Noodle,” said Mr. Whitcomb, laughing; “but don’t you see how young he is, and therefore how serious? Who would call ‘enormously amusing’ a fitting compliment for one of the seven champions of Christendom? This is a devil of a fellow.” “I can roar you like any sucking dove,” said the young man. “How it would thrill one to hear you do it!” said the lady, enfolding him with large eyes. “He is a man of destiny,” said Mr. Whitcomb; “he carries a genie in his pocket.” “Oh!” said the lady, with clasped hands. “One of these fine mornings he will stand the world on its head.” “O-o-o-o-h!” said the lady. “And having done that,” said Northcote, “this amazing fellow will dig a hole in the universe for to bury the moon.” “I would that all men had ambition,” said the lady, looking down at her shoe. “If Witty had only a little of that precious salt which forms a sediment at the bottom of every fine action he would be one’s beau-ideal of a hero, a Christian, and a philosopher.” “Minx!” exclaimed the solicitor. “If it were not for my ambition I should never rise from my bed.” “So this wonderful Mr. Whitcomb has no ambition!” said Northcote. “You see I have found his character so complex, that in my capacity of an amateur of the human mind I am picking it out, here a little, there a little, piece by piece.” “You must give him no marks for ambition,” said the lady. “But since when did you become acquainted with him not to have found out that?” “Since this evening at ten.” “Ah, then, you are absolved. He will certainly baffle you at first.” “He is wholly incomprehensible to me. He is a man of moods who oughtn’t to have any.” The lady clapped her hands in a little ripple of glee. “How right,” she cried. “In a dozen little words you have shown me the nothingness of my own knowledge.” “Of course he has, Vapid One,” said Mr. Whitcomb. “Have I not told you he carries a genie in his pocket?”