" It was a nice, tidy little
shop, with a fire on the hearth and flowers in the window, and, as
it was raining smartly, I thought no one would catch me if I stepped
inside to chat with Martha. I fancied it would be so delightful and
Dickensy to talk quietly with a licensed victualer by the name of
Martha Huggins.
Just after I had settled myself, the flower of chivalry came in and
ordered ale. I was disconcerted at being found in a dramshop alone,
for I thought, after the bag episode, he might fancy us a family of
inebriates. But he didn't evince the slightest astonishment; he
merely lifted his hat, and walked out after he had finished his ale.
He certainly has the loveliest manners!
And so it goes on, and we never get any further. I like his
politeness and his evident feeling that I can't be flirted and
talked with like a forward boarding-school miss, but I must say I
don't think much of his ingenuity. Of course one can't have all the
virtues, but, if I were he, I would part with my distinguished air,
my charming ease, in fact almost anything, if I could have in
exchange a few grains of common sense, just enough to guide me in
the practical affairs of life.
I wonder what he is? He might be an artist, but he doesn't seem
quite like an artist; or a dilettante, but he doesn't seem in the
least like a dilettante. Or he might be an architect; I think that
is the most probable guess of all. Perhaps he is only "going to be"
one of these things, for he can't be more than twenty-five or
twenty-six.
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