Wrenn, with secret terror.
"Yes, that's so," came so approvingly from the Greek chorus that
the personal pupil of Mittyford, Ph.D., made his first epigram:
"It isn't so much what you like as what you don't like that
shows if you're wise."
"Yes," they gurgled; and Mr. Wrenn, much pleased with himself,
smiled _au prince_ upon his new friends.
Mrs. Stettinius was getting into her stride for a few remarks
upon the poetry of industrialism when Mr. Gutch, who had been
"Uh--"ing for some moments, trying to get in his remark, winked
with sly rudeness at Miss Saxonby and observed:
"I fancy romance isn't quite dead yet, y' know. Our friends
here seem to have had quite a ro-mantic little journey." Then he
winked again.
"Say, what do you mean?" demanded Bill Wrenn, hot-eyed, fists
clenched, but very quiet.
"Oh, I'm not _blaming_ you and Miss Nash--quite the reverse!"
tittered the Gutch person, wagging his head sagely.
Then Bill Wrenn, with his fist at Mr. Gutch's nose, spoke his mind:
"Say, you white-faced unhealthy dirty-minded lump, I ain't much
of a fighter, but I'm going to muss you up so's you can't find
your ears if you don't apologize for those insinuations.
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