"Ain't he just lovely?" said Kate, gasping for breath, "and so
witty."
"Witty!" said the gentle May, with just the slightest trace of
defiance in her sweet voice; "witty, my dear? why, don't you see
that his heart is just breaking with pathos? Witty, indeed; why,
when he was speaking of that poor Mexican woman that was hung, I
saw the tears gather in his eyes. Witty, indeed!"
"Tears," laughed the cynical Sylvester, "tears, idle tears. Why,
you silly children, the man is a man of the world, a philosopher,
quiet, observant, unassuming."
"Unassuming!" Was Sylvester intoxicated, or had the mysterious
stranger mixed the "insane verb" with the family pottage? He
returned before I could answer this self-asked inquiry, and resumed
coolly his broken narrative. Finding myself forgotten in the man I
had so long hesitated to introduce to my friends, I retired to rest
early, only to hear, through the thin partitions, two hours later,
enthusiastic praises of the new guest from the voluble lips of the
girls, as they chatted in the next room before retiring.
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