grin had only exercised a little forethought. Mills and stocks and real estate are so puzzling to one who doesn't understand them, and as I said, they bore Roscoe horribly."
Well, Roscoe did look that. Somehow, as his dull blue eyes swept us in an impersonal, self-satisfied stare, the kind of stare a much-petted pug-dog gives to a stranger hand, we felt that we, too, bored Roscoe. It was something, however, that we could no more avoid than could Joshua Peppergrin have avoided answering the solemn call which took him away from his money-making and left all his property to puzzle the weary brain of the ill-used Roscoe. What a thoughtless thing for Joshua to do!
Some little satisfaction it was to see that Mrs. Peppergrin did her best to make amends. If Joshua had given Roscoe little thought, she gave thought to little else. At almost any hour of the day you might see her trotting after him with his overcoat, his gloves, his umbrella, or his cane. Early in the morning she began puffing up and down two flights of stairs—for Mrs. Peppergrin
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For a half-hour at a time Millie would turn her back on him
was no lightweight—to get things for Roscoe: the morning papers, a glass of hot milk, a bit of toast. She would not trust the servants; they made mistakes, and Roscoe was impatient when folks made mistakes. At intervals all day long she panted and bustled about. Roscoe had forgotten his cigarettes, he wanted this, he ought to have that. At meal-time, she devoted her attention to seeing that Roscoe's many whims were all satisfied. It was very touching, very beautiful, especially the consistent manner in which he snubbed her.
"Are the eggs right? Wouldn't you like some a little softer, Roscoe?"
No response.
"Isn't that toast too dry for you, dear?"
Roscoe reads his paper undisturbed.
"Shall I send for another chop? Have you cream enough in your coffee?"
You might have imagined that Roscoe could neither see nor hear.
Was it necessary to have known Roscoe during his tender years to judge accurately of his boyhood and youth? No, it was not. We had that, at least, for which to be thankful.
A whole week of Roscoe at this stage left an impression somewhat vivid. For months afterward the labored breathing of a stout woman brought him to mind.
In part two there was no change of setting. Again we were at So-and-So-in-the-Pines, and once more did Roscoe appear, still the pretty man, still bored, Mrs. Peppergrin still puffing along in his wake. But with them came a frilled young person. Very much frilled she was. Possibly that is not quite lucid. A feminine analysis of her appearance might add descriptive details more to the purpose, but you must take the frills for the phrases. Her name was Millicent.
"She thinks so much of dear
