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Curtain. The comedy is over." "But that's what they don't understand," said Steingall, with enthusiasm. "That's what they will never understand." "Such miracles exist?" said Towsey with a short, disagreeable laugh. "I know the wife of an artist," said Quinny, "whom I consider the most remarkable woman I know who sits and knits and smiles. She is one who understands.
At this deft disentanglement of a complicated idea, Rankin, who, like the professional juryman, wagged his head in agreement with each speaker and was convinced by the most violent, gazed upon Quinny with absolute adoration. "We were speaking of woman," said Towsey, gruffly, who pronounced the sex with a peculiar staccato sound.
Her husband adores her, and he is in love with a woman a month. When he gets in too deep, ready for another inspiration, you know, she calls up the old love on the telephone and asks her to stop annoying her husband." "Marvelous!" said Steingall, dropping his glasses. "No, really?" said Rankin. "Has she a sister?" said Towsey.
An artist should always marry unhappily, and do you know why? Purely a question of chemistry. Towsey, when do you work the best?" "How do you mean?" said Towsey, rousing himself. "I've heard you say that you worked best when your nerves were all on edge night out, cucumbers, thunder-storm, or a touch of fever." "Yes, that's so."
"Here, where are you going?" said Rankin in protest. "Over to the studio," said Towsey, quite unconsciously. "I feel like a little work."
It was a pleasant little house, in a semi-countrified spot, and it contained, besides the usual furniture proper to an English gentleman and his wife of moderate fortune, a little Scotch terrier named Towsey, who commanded much of the attention of us children, and one day inadvertently bit my thumb; and I carry the scar, for remembrance, to this day.
At the familiar phrases of Steingall's outburst, Rankin wagged his head in unequivocal assent, Stibo smiled so as to show his fine upper teeth, and Towsey flung away his cigar, saying: "Words, words." At this moment when Quinny, who had digested Steingall's argument, was preparing to devour the whole topic, Britt Herkimer, the sculptor, joined them.
"He's a plutocrat or something," said Towsey, reflectively. "He's rich ended," said Steingall as he slapped the table. "By Jove! I remember now." "Wait," said Quinny, interposing. "I went up to see him yesterday just back now," said Herkimer. "Rantoul was the biggest man of us all. It's a funny tale. You're discussing matrimony; here it is."
The French Marine Humane Society immediately placed hundreds of men on the beach; and the office, or lodging, being close to the shore, as soon as the corpses were picked up they were brought to the rooms, where I assisted many of my countrymen in endeavoring to restore them to life. Our efforts were fruitless except in the cases of the three men, Owen, Rice and Towsey.
Owen and four others were on the spars, and thinks they remained there three quarters of an hour, but, seeing no hope of being saved, he took to swimming, and was brought in a state of insensibility to the hotel. Towsey, another of the men saved, was on a plank with the captain. Towsey asked who he was? He said "I am the captain," but the next moment he was gone.
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