THE AMERICAN
very flattering. But in future," added Mrs. Tristram, "pray forget all the 'mean' things and remember only the good. It will be easily done and won't fatigue your memory. Only I forewarn you that if you trust my husband to pick out your rooms you're in for something hideous."
"Hideous, darling?" her husband cried.
"To-day I utter nothing base; otherwise I should use stronger language."
"What do you think she would say, Newman?" Tristram asked. "If she really tried now? She can polish one off for a wretch volubly—in two or three languages; that's what it is to have high culture. It gives her the start of me completely, since I can't swear, for the life of me, except in pure Anglo-Saxon. When I get mad I have to fall back on our dear old mother tongue. There's nothing like it after all."
Newman declared that he knew nothing about tables and chairs and would accept, in the way of a lodging, with his eyes shut, anything that Tristram should offer him. This was partly pure veracity on our hero's part, but it was also partly charity. He knew that to pry about and count casseroles and make people open windows, to poke into beds and sofas with his cane, to gossip with landladies and ask who lived above and who below—he knew that this was of all pastimes the dearest to his friend's heart, and he felt the more disposed to put it in his way as he was conscious he had suffered the warmth of their ancient fellowship somewhat to abate. He had besides no taste for upholstery; he had even
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