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To the luxury of feeling that he knew the unusual Miss Istra Nash he sacrificed Dr. Mittyford, scholarship and eye-glasses and Shelley and all, without mercy. "Yes, he was awfully funny. Gee! I didn't care much for him." "Of course you know he's a great man, however?" Istra was as bland as though she had meant that all along, which left Mr.
He thought slightingly of those lonely bachelors, Morton and Mittyford, Ph. D. They just didn't know what it meant to a fellow to be going to church with a girl like Miss Nelly, he reflected, as he re brushed his hair after breakfast. He walked proudly beside her, and made much of the gentility of entering the church, as one of the well-to-do and intensely bathed congregation.
After about two and a quarter tankards he broke out, "Say, that peddler guy there, don't he look like he was a gipsy you know sneaking through the hedges around the manner-house to steal the earl's daughter, huh?" "Yes.... You're a romanticist, then, I take it?" "Yes, I guess I am. Kind of. Like to read romances and stuff." He stared at Mittyford beseechingly.
Mittyford had a bald head, neat eye-glasses, a fair family income, a chatty good-fellowship at the Faculty Club, and a chilly contemptuousness in his rhetoric class-room at Leland Stanford, Jr., University. He wrote poetry, which he filed away under the letter "P" in his letter-file. Dr. Mittyford grudgingly took Mr. Wrenn about, to teach him what not to enjoy.
She dropped into interested familiarity. "I met him at Oxford." "Really?... My brother was at Stanford. I think I've heard him speak of Oh yes. He said that Mittyford was a cultural climber, if you know what I mean; rather oh, how shall I express it? oh, shall we put it, finicky about things people have just told him to be finicky about." "Yes!" glowed Mr. Wrenn.
He pointed at Shelley's rooms as at a certificated angel's feather, but Mr. Wrenn writhingly admitted that he had never heard of Shelley, whose name he confused with Max O'Rell's, which Dr. Mittyford deemed an error. Then, Pater's window. The doctor shrugged. Oh well, what could you expect of the proletariat!
When he awoke in the morning with a headache and surveyed his unchangeably dingy room he realized slowly, after smothering his head in the pillow to shut off the light from his scorching eyeballs, that Dr. Mittyford had called him a fool for trying to wander.
"But, say say, I wonder why Somehow, I haven't enjoyed Oxford and the rest of the places like I ought to. See, I'd always thought I'd be simply nutty about the quatrangles and stuff, but I'm afraid they're too highbrow for me. I hate to own up, but sometimes I wonder if I can get away with this traveling stunt." Mittyford, the magnificent, had mixed ale and whisky punch.
"I guess they wanted to make sure they were admirin' the right things," ventured Mr. 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.
"My dear sir, Mr. Pater was the most immaculate genius of the nineteenth century," lectured Dr. Mittyford, the cultured American, severely. Mr. Wrenn had met Mittyford, Ph.D., near the barges; had, upon polite request, still more politely lent him a match, and seized the chance to confide in somebody.
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