sn't it? And handy! And I was learning,
too--learning things worth good money to know. I saw that the best
sort didn't make any noise about anything. They went about their
business, whatever it was, easy-easy, same as me in my line. But,
parson, though I'd got hep to the outside, and had sense enough to
copy what I'd seen, I wasn't wise to the inside difference--the things
that make the best what it is, I mean--because I'd never been close
enough to find out that there's more to it than looks and duds and
manners. It took the Parish House people to soak that into me. People
aren't anything but people--but the best are--well, different."

We fell silent; a happy silence, into which, as from another planet,
there drifted light laughter, and sweet gay voices of girls, and the
stir and rustle of many people moving about. On the Mayne fence the
judge's black Panch sat, neck outstretched, emerald eyes aslant, ears
cocked uneasily at these unwonted noises. At a little distance a
bluejay watched him with bright malevolent eyes, every now and then
screaming insults at the whole tribe of cats, and black Panch in
particular. Flint snapped his fingers, and Panch, with a spring, was
off the fence and on his friend's knees. It seemed to me it had only
needed the sleek beastie to make that hour perfect;--for cats in the
highest degree make for a sense of homely, friendly intimacy. Flint,
feeling this, stroked the black head contentedly. Panch purred for the
three of us.

Into this presently broke Miss Sally Ruth Dexter, and bore down on
John Flint like a frigate with all sails spread. At sight of her Panch
spat and fled, and took the happy spell with him.

"Here you are, cuddling that old pirate of a black cat!" said she,
briskly. "I told Madame you'd be mooning about somewhere. Here's some
cocoanut cake for you both. Father, Madame's been looking for you. Did
you know," she sank her voice to a piercing whisper, "that George
Inglesby's here? Well, he is! He's talking to Mary Virginia Eustis,
this very minute! They do say he's running after Mary Virginia, and
I'm sure I wouldn't be surprised, for if ever a mortal man had the
effrontery of Satan that man's George Inglesby! I must admit he's
improved since Mr. Hunter took him in hand. He's not nearly so stout
and red-faced, and he hasn't half the jowl, though Lord knows he'll
have to get rid of a few tons more of his blubber" (Miss Sally Ruth
has a free and fetterless tongue) "if he w