He's very moral."
"He's done a lot of good," said Geraldine with intense gravity.
"Rot!" scoffed Anthony. "He's a pious ass--a chickenbrain."
Her mind left the subject and flitted on.
"Why don't you live with him?"
"Why don't I board in a Methodist parsonage?"
"You cra-azy!"
Again she made a little clicking sound to express disapproval. Anthony
thought how moral was this little waif at heart--how completely moral
she would still be after the inevitable wave came that would wash her
off the sands of respectability.
"Do you hate him?"
"I wonder. I never liked him. You never like people who do things for
you."
"Does he hate you?"
"My dear Geraldine," protested Anthony, frowning humorously, "do have
another cocktail. I annoy him. If I smoke a cigarette he comes into the
room sniffing. He's a prig, a bore, and something of a hypocrite. I
probably wouldn't be telling you this if I hadn't had a few drinks, but
I don't suppose it matters."
Geraldine was persistently interested. She held her glass, untasted,
between finger and thumb and regarded him with eyes in which there was a
touch of awe.
"How do you mean a hypocrite?"
"Well," said Anthony impatiently, "maybe he's not.
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