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Updated: May 24, 2025
I'm sorry, for it's my pet fan. Of course it will be safe there, but I think I'll telephone Marie to look it up and put it away." Knowing that the Homers would not yet have retired, Patty picked up her telephone and called the number. A masculine voice gave back a cheery "Hello!" "Is this Mr. Homer?" said Patty. "No, indeed. I'm Kit Cameron. Who are you, please?"
Sutcliffe had given her; a light blue row for the Thomas Hardys; a dark blue for the George Merediths; royal blue and gold for the Rudyard Kiplings. And in the narrow upright bookcase in the arm of the T facing her writing-table, Mark's books: the Homers and the Greek dramatists. Their backs had faded from puce colour to drab. Mark's books.
There were nine beside the Homers, and Patty was acquainted with them all. She called them up each in turn on the telephone, and explained carefully that a mistake had been made in the invitations, and she hoped they would come on the first instead of the eighth.
"Isn't this The Wimbledon apartment house?" "It sure is." "Isn't this 6483?" "No, it's 6843. Please tell me who you are?" A spirit of mischief entered into Patty. She knew this must be Marie Homer's cousin, who lived on the floor above the Homers, and who, Mrs. Homer had said, detested girls. "But I have the wrong number," she said. "I didn't mean to call you."
"She ought to have spelled it out," said Patty, who was punctilious in such matters. "Yes," agreed Nan, "it's those little details that count so much among society people." "Well, the Homers are dears, but they lack just that little something that makes people know when to spell their figures and when not to. I think it's horrid when people spell a date in ordinary correspondence.
Then Patty herself stepped into the hall, threw open the door, and in came eight merry, laughing girls! Patty had arranged that Elise should stay downstairs and receive each guest, and keep them there until all had arrived. Then they were to come upstairs, and wait outside the Homers' door, until the dramatic moment.
Scotland suited her better, and she could not help enjoying the fine scenery with such companions as the Homers; for the Professor knew all about the relics and ruins, and his wife had a memory richly stored with the legends, poetry, and romance which make dull facts memorable and history enchanting. But Jenny's quiet rapture was pleasant to behold.
At the few parties to which they went, for the Homers' friends were of the grave, elderly sort, Jenny sat in a corner taking notes of the gay scene, while Ethel yawned. But the Mouse got many a crumb of good conversation as she nestled close to Mrs. Homer, drinking in the wise and witty chat that went on between the friends who came to pay their respects to the Professor and his interesting wife.
Where we fail is for want of Homers, not Agamemnons. Carent quia vale sacro, you know." "I recall the quotation. But I don't think I quite follow you." "Well, in plain language, we have no good writers in London who make a specialty of that kind of thing. Our common reporter is a dull dog; every story that he has to tell is spoilt in the telling.
These take place only in communities where some have got more than is sufficient while others have not enough. The Pope's Homers would soon get properly distributed. "Nec bella fuerunt, Faginus astabat dum scyphus ante dapes." "Nor wars did men molest, When only beechen bowls were in request." "You who govern public affairs, what need have you to employ punishments?
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