The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon Part 7

"S-Shakspere," he ventured desperately.

"He's mine, too." Mr. Pottle breathed easier.

"But," she added, "I think Longfellow is sweet, don't you?"

"Very sweet," agreed Mr. Pottle.

She smiled at him with a sad, shy confidence.

"He did not understand," she said.

She nodded her blonde head toward an enlarged picture of the late Mr.

Gallup, in the full regalia of Past Grand Master of the Beneficent Order of Beavers.

"Didn't he care for--er--literature?" asked Mr. Pottle.

"He despised it," she replied. "He was wrapped up in the hay-and-feed business. He began to talk about oats and chicken gravel on our honeymoon."

Mr. Pottle made a sympathetic noise.

"In our six years of married life," she went on, "he talked of nothing but duck fodder, carload lots, trade discounts, selling points, bran, turnover----"

How futile, how inadequate seem mere words in some situations. Mr.

Pottle said nothing; timidly he took her hand in his; she did not draw it away.

"And he only shaved on Sat.u.r.day nights," she said.

Mr. Pottle's free hand went to his own face, smooth as steel and art could make it.

"Blossom," he began huskily, "have you ever thought of marrying again?"

"I have," she answered, blus.h.i.+ng--his hand on hers tightened--"and I haven't," she finished.

"Oh, Blossom----" he began once more.

"If I do marry again," she interrupted, "it will be a literary man."

"A literary man?" His tone was aghast. "A writing fella?"

"Oh, not necessarily a writer," she said. "They usually live in garrets, and I shouldn't like that. I mean a man who has read all sorts of books, and who can talk about all sorts of things."

"Blossom"--Mr. Pottle's voice was humble--"I'm not what you might call----"

There was a sound of clumping feet on the porch outside. Mrs. Gallup started up.

"Oh, that must be him now!" she cried.

"Him? Who?"

"Why, Mr. Deeley."

"Who's he?" queried Mr. Pottle.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you! He said he might call to-night. Such a nice man! I met him over in Xenia last week. Such a brilliant conversationalist. I know you'll like each other."

She hastened to answer the doorbell; Mr. Pottle sat moodily in his chair, not at all sure he'd like Mr. Deeley.

The brilliant conversationalist burst into the room breezily, confidently. He was slightly smaller than a load of hay in his belted suit of ecru pongee; he wore a satisfied air and a pleased mustache.

"Meet Mr. Pottle," said Mrs. Gallup.

"What name?" asked Mr. Deeley. His voice was high, sweet and loud; his handshake was a knuckle pulverizer.

"Pottle," said the owner of that name.

"I beg pardon?" said Mr. Deeley.

"Pottle," said Mr. Pottle more loudly.

"Sorry," said Mr. Deeley affably, "but it sounds just like 'Pottle' to me."

"That's what it is," said Mr. Pottle with dignity.

Mr. Deeley laughed a loud t.i.ttering laugh.

"Oh, well," he remarked genially, "you can't help that. We're born with our names, but"--he bestowed a dazzling smile on Mrs. Gallup--"we pick our own teeth."

"Oh, Mr. Deeley," she cried, "you do say the most ridiculously witty things!"

Mr. Pottle felt a concrete lump forming in his bosom.

Mr. Deeley addressed him tolerantly. "What line are you in, Mr. Bottle?"

he asked.

"Barbers' supplies," admitted Mr. Pottle.

"Ah, yes. Barbers' supplies. How interesting," said Mr. Deeley.

"Climbing the lather of success, eh?"

Mr. Pottle did not join in the merriment.

"What line are you in?" he asked. He prayed that Mr. Deeley would say "Shoes," for by a happy inspiration he was prepared to counter with, "Ah, starting at the bottom," and thus split honors with the Xenian.

But Mr. Deeley did not say "Shoes." He said "Literature." Mrs. Gallup beamed.

"Oh, are you, Mr. Deeley? How perfectly thrilling!" she said rapturously. "I didn't know that."

"Oh, yes indeed," said Mr. Deeley. He changed the subject by turning to Mr. Pottle. "By the way, Mr. Poodle, are you interested in Abyssinia?"

he inquired.