The Humorist
"Georgie's goose is a swan." Drusilla gave another queer little cough. "It always is. And he generally cooks it; don't you, Georgie?"
Georgie rose.
"I'm going to bed," he said. "You can heap your insults on my empty chair when I'm gone. If I stop any longer, I shall say something I'm sorry for, and I shall be glad of it. You will see her in the morning, and then perhaps you will understand that I'm not quite such a giddy fool as you think me."
"I devoutly hope not," said I with some earnestness.
We were very tired, but before she went to sleep Drusilla found time to say that she really did think it was time Georgie grew up. She saw now, she said, why he hadn't sent for his mother.
And in the morning we found him waiting for us, with a girl—the girl, of course. Drusilla and I exchanged quick glances. Perhaps we had both expected powder and meretriciously bronzed hair. Here were
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