Whose feelings could never be riled.
While the porpoises porped
And the passengers torped,
_He_ sat on the lee rail and smiled."

"Beautiful!" she applauded. "I feel much better already."

"Don't you think a little walk would put you completely on your feet?"
he inquired.

"On yours, more probably." She smiled up at him. "Come and sit down and
tell me: are you a poet, or a lunatic, or a haberdasher, or what kind of
a--a Daddleskink are you?"

"Haberdasher? Why should I be a haberdasher?"

"An acquaintance of yours has been talking--trying to talk to me about
you. She said you were."

"Mrs. Denyse?"

"She seems a fearfully queer person, and quite excited about you. There
was something about you and a necktie, and--and Mr. Van Dam, and then I
escaped."

"Oh! The necktie. Why, yes, I suppose I am a sort of haberdasher, come
to think of it."

"I'm glad you're not ashamed of your business if you are of your name.
You told her it was Smith."

"Did I? I don't remember that I did, exactly. Even so, what would be the
use of wasting a really good name on her? She wouldn't appreciate it."

"Mr. De Dalesquinc--"

"Daddleskink," corrected the Tyro firmly.

"Very well," she sighed. "Daddleskink, then. Wasn't that Dr. Alderson,
the historian, that you were walking with yesterday?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"Only by correspondence. He did some research work on my house."

"_Your_ house. Do you inhabit a prehistoric ruin, that Alderson should
take an interest in it?"

"I call it mine. It isn't really--yet. It doesn't belong to anybody."

"Then why not just go and grab it? Squatter sovereignty, I believe they
call the process."

"I thought it was called jumping a claim. Somebody has a claim on it.
But that doesn't count. I always get what I want."

"Without trying?"

"Yes," she purred.

"Unfortunate maiden!"

"What?"

"I said 'unfortunate maiden.' Life must be fearfully dull for you."

"It isn't dull at all. It's delightful!"

"As witness day before yesterday. Were you getting what you wanted
then?"

"I wanted a good cry, and I got it. And I don't want to talk about it.
If you're going to be stupid--"

"Tell me about the prehistoric ruin," he implored hastily.

"It isn't a ruin at all. It's the cunningest, quaintest, homiest little
old house in all New York."

"I'm sorry," he said in the tone of one who reluctantly thwarts
another's project.

"What are you sorry about?" She