the remains. A boy's best friend is his mother.
In the studio she had left, Hermione was gazing at Ignatius, in her eyes a look he had never seen there before.
'I had no idea you were so eloquent, Mr Mulliner,' she said, breaking the silence. 'What a vivid description that was that you gave of me. Quite a prose poem.'
Ignatius made a deprecating gesture.
'Oh, well,' he said.
'Do you really think I am like that?'
'I do.'
'Yellow?'
'Greeny yellow.'
'And my eyes . . .?' She hesitated for a word.
'They are not unlike blue oysters,' said Ignatius, prompting her, 'which have been dead some time.'
'In fact, you don't admire my looks?'
'Far from it.'
She was saying something, but he had ceased to listen. Quite suddenly he had remembered that about a couple of weeks ago, at a little party which he had given in the studio, he had dropped a half-smoked cigar behind the bureau. And as no charwoman is allowed by the rules of her union to sweep under bureaux, it might – nay, must – still be there. With feverish haste he dragged the bureau out. It was.
Ignatius Mulliner sighed an ecstatic sigh. Chewed and mangled, covered with dust and bitten by mice, this object between his fingers was nevertheless a cigar – a genuine, smokeable cigar, containing the regulation eight per cent of carbon monoxide. He struck a match and the next moment he had begun to puff.
And, as he did so, the milk of human kindness surged back into his soul like a vast tidal wave. As swiftly as a rabbit, handled by a competent conjurer, changes into a bouquet, a bowl of goldfish or the grand old flag, Ignatius Mulliner changed into a thing of sweetness and light, with charity towards all, with malice towards none. The pyridine played about his mucous surfaces, and he welcomed it like a long-lost brother. He felt gay, happy, exhilarated.
He looked at Hermione, standing there with her eyes sparkling and her beautiful face ashine, and he realized that he had been all wrong about her. So far from being a gumboil, she was the loveliest thing that had ever breathed the perfumed air of Kensington.
And then, chilling his ecstasy and stopping his heart in the middle of a beat, came the recollection of what he had said about her appearance. He felt pale and boneless. If ever a man had dished himself properly, that man, he felt, was Ignatius Mulliner. And he did not mean maybe.
She was looking at him, and the expression on her face seemed somehow to suggest that she was waiting for something.
'Well?' she said.
'I beg your pardon?' said Ignatius.
She pouted.
'Well, aren't you going to – er – ?'
'What?'
'Well, fold me in your arms and all that sort of thing,' said Hermione, blushing prettily.
Ignatius tottered.
'Who, me?'
'Yes, you.'
'Fold you in my arms?'
'Yes.'
'But – er – do you want me to?'
'Certainly.'
'I mean . . . after all I said . . .'
She stared at him in amazement.
'Haven't you been listening to what I've been telling you?' she cried.
'I'm sorry.' Ignatius stammered. 'Good deal on my mind just now. Must have missed it. What did you say?'
'I said that, if you really think I look like that, you do not love me, as I had always supposed, for my beauty, but for my intellect. And if you knew how I have always longed to be loved for my intellect!'
Ignatius put down his cigar and breathed deeply.
'Let me get this right,' he said. 'Will you marry me?'
'Of course I will. You always attracted me strangely, Ignatius, but I thought you looked upon me as a mere doll.'
He picked up his cigar, took a puff, laid it down again, took a step forward, extended his arms, and folded her in them. And for a space they stood there, clasped together, murmuring those broken words that lovers know so well. Then, gently disengaging her, he went back to the cigar and took another invigorating puff.
'Besides,' she said, 'how could
In the studio she had left, Hermione was gazing at Ignatius, in her eyes a look he had never seen there before.
'I had no idea you were so eloquent, Mr Mulliner,' she said, breaking the silence. 'What a vivid description that was that you gave of me. Quite a prose poem.'
Ignatius made a deprecating gesture.
'Oh, well,' he said.
'Do you really think I am like that?'
'I do.'
'Yellow?'
'Greeny yellow.'
'And my eyes . . .?' She hesitated for a word.
'They are not unlike blue oysters,' said Ignatius, prompting her, 'which have been dead some time.'
'In fact, you don't admire my looks?'
'Far from it.'
She was saying something, but he had ceased to listen. Quite suddenly he had remembered that about a couple of weeks ago, at a little party which he had given in the studio, he had dropped a half-smoked cigar behind the bureau. And as no charwoman is allowed by the rules of her union to sweep under bureaux, it might – nay, must – still be there. With feverish haste he dragged the bureau out. It was.
Ignatius Mulliner sighed an ecstatic sigh. Chewed and mangled, covered with dust and bitten by mice, this object between his fingers was nevertheless a cigar – a genuine, smokeable cigar, containing the regulation eight per cent of carbon monoxide. He struck a match and the next moment he had begun to puff.
And, as he did so, the milk of human kindness surged back into his soul like a vast tidal wave. As swiftly as a rabbit, handled by a competent conjurer, changes into a bouquet, a bowl of goldfish or the grand old flag, Ignatius Mulliner changed into a thing of sweetness and light, with charity towards all, with malice towards none. The pyridine played about his mucous surfaces, and he welcomed it like a long-lost brother. He felt gay, happy, exhilarated.
He looked at Hermione, standing there with her eyes sparkling and her beautiful face ashine, and he realized that he had been all wrong about her. So far from being a gumboil, she was the loveliest thing that had ever breathed the perfumed air of Kensington.
And then, chilling his ecstasy and stopping his heart in the middle of a beat, came the recollection of what he had said about her appearance. He felt pale and boneless. If ever a man had dished himself properly, that man, he felt, was Ignatius Mulliner. And he did not mean maybe.
She was looking at him, and the expression on her face seemed somehow to suggest that she was waiting for something.
'Well?' she said.
'I beg your pardon?' said Ignatius.
She pouted.
'Well, aren't you going to – er – ?'
'What?'
'Well, fold me in your arms and all that sort of thing,' said Hermione, blushing prettily.
Ignatius tottered.
'Who, me?'
'Yes, you.'
'Fold you in my arms?'
'Yes.'
'But – er – do you want me to?'
'Certainly.'
'I mean . . . after all I said . . .'
She stared at him in amazement.
'Haven't you been listening to what I've been telling you?' she cried.
'I'm sorry.' Ignatius stammered. 'Good deal on my mind just now. Must have missed it. What did you say?'
'I said that, if you really think I look like that, you do not love me, as I had always supposed, for my beauty, but for my intellect. And if you knew how I have always longed to be loved for my intellect!'
Ignatius put down his cigar and breathed deeply.
'Let me get this right,' he said. 'Will you marry me?'
'Of course I will. You always attracted me strangely, Ignatius, but I thought you looked upon me as a mere doll.'
He picked up his cigar, took a puff, laid it down again, took a step forward, extended his arms, and folded her in them. And for a space they stood there, clasped together, murmuring those broken words that lovers know so well. Then, gently disengaging her, he went back to the cigar and took another invigorating puff.
'Besides,' she said, 'how could
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