She returned the Serve with one of these chummy Epistles, written on
all sides of the Paper, with the P.S. crawling up one Margin like a
Pea-Vine. She chucked in a few mushy Extracts from the Oatmeal School
of Thought and asked him the Name of his Favorite Poet.
Her Pace was a trifle Swift for Harry J., who had derived his
Education from the Sporting Section of the Daily Papers, but he bought
a Lover's Guide and a Dictionary and decided to stay in.
The size of it was that little Harry had been Harpooned all the way
through. He was the original Sweetheart a la Brochette. He carried
with him, Night and Day, a Vision of Her in the $200 Rig that she had
flashed on the Night of the Party. It never occurred to him that she
could wear any other Costume. He would close his Eyes and try to hear
once again the dulcet and mellifluous Tones of that Voice which, to
him, sounded as Good as an AEolian Harp moved by gentle Zephyrs within
a Bower of Orchids costing $7 each.
So they exchanged Photos.
Next to the Miniature painted on Ivory, the Modern Photo is the prize
Bunk of the Universe.
A successful Photographer, who has learned the Tricks and made a
slight Study of Human Nature, can take a Grass Widow of 48, who is
troubled with Wild Hairs and other Excess Ornaments, and by tampering
with the Negative, he can make her out to look something like Ethel
Barrymore. Then she can send the Picture to her Relations who live a
long way off and they will never know the Difference.
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