"Oh, that's it. Breeches, not pants."
"--last word in smartness. Overdressing is just ten degrees worse than
underdressing."
"Oh, I don't know. Take this sloppy old blue suit of mine----"
"It's perfectly nice and simple, and quite well cut. You probably had a
clever tailor."
"I had. He lives in Chicago or New York, I believe."
"Really? How did he come to Schoenstrom?"
"Never been there. This tailor is a busy boy. He fitted about eleventeen
thousand people, last year."
"I see. Ready mades. Cheer up. That's where Henry B. Boltwood gets most
of his clothes. Mr. Daggett, if ever I catch you in the
Aren't-I-beautiful frame of mind of our friend back on the porch, I'll
give up my trip to struggle for your soul."
"He seemed to have soul in large chunks. He seemed to talk pretty
painlessly. I had a hunch you and he were discussing sculpture, anyway.
Maybe Rodin."
"What do you know about Rodin?"
"Articles in the magazines. Same place you learned about him!" But Milt
did not sound rude. He said it chucklingly.
"You're perfectly right. And we've probably read the very same articles.
Well, our friend back there said to me at dinner, 'It must be dreadful
for you to have to encounter so many common people along the road.' I
said, 'It is,' in the most insulting tone I could, and he just rolled
his eyes, and hadn't an idea I meant him. Then he slickered his hair at
me, and mooed, 'Is it not wonderful to see all these strange
manifestations of the secrets of Nature!' and I said, 'Is it?' and he
went on, 'One feels that if one could but meet a sympathetic lady here,
one's cup of rejoicing in untrammeled nature----' Honest, Milt, Mr.
Daggett, I mean, he did talk like that. Been reading books by optimistic
lady authors. And one looked at me, one did, as if one would be willing
to hold my hand, if I let one.
"He invited me to come out on the porch and give the double O. to
handsome mountains as illuminated by terrestrial bodies, and I felt so
weak in the presence of his conceit that I couldn't refuse. Then he
insisted on introducing me to a woman from my own Brooklyn, who
condoled with me for having to talk to Western persons while motoring.
Oh, dear God, that such people should live ... that the sniffy little
Claire should once have been permitted to live!... And then I saw you!"
Through all her tirade they had stood close together, her face visibly
eager in the glow from the hotel; and Milt had grown taller. But he
responded, "I'm afraid I might have been just as bad. I haven't even
reached the riding-breeches stage in evolution. Maybe never will."