"Men do write that kind of thing," he added cheerfully, "but it's quite
harmless. There was a disease at college we called adjectivitis. Your
poet friend had it. He could have left out the 'wild' and 'savage' and
he'd have been pleasant, and truthful too--no, I apologize."
He had seen her face darken under the compliment, and he hastened to put
it right.
"I loved a Gipsy once," he added whimsically to divert attention from his
mistake, and with so genuine a sympathy in his voice that she was
disarmed. "I was ten and she was fifty at least. Oh, a wonderful woman! I
had a boy friend, a fat, happy, little joker he was; his name was Charley
Long. Well, this woman was his aunt. When she moved through the town
people looked twice. She was tall and splendidly made, and her
manner--oh, as if she owned the place. She did own a lot--she had more
money than any one else thereabouts, anyhow. It was the tallest kind of a
holiday when Charley and I walked out to the big white house-golly, but
it was white--to visit her! We didn't eat much the day before we went to
see her; and we didn't eat much the day after, either. She used to feed
us--I wish I could eat like that now! I can see her brown eyes following
us about, full of fire, but soft and kind, too.
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