He was lionized, quoted,
courted, flattered, reviewed, viewed through rose-colored
spectacles; and disillusioned, discontented, cynical, selfish, and,
of course, most horribly bored. He was gun-shy of women; he
suspected them of wanting to marry him. He was wary of men; he
suspected them of wanting to exploit him. He loathed children, who
were generally obstreperous and unnecessary editions of parents he
didn't admire. He didn't even trust the beautiful works of men's
hands. They, even they, were too often faked! If you had dug up the
indubitable mummy of the first Pharaoh from under the oldest of the
pyramids, The Author would have turned him over on his back and
hunted for the trade-mark of The Modern Mummy-makers: London, Paris,
and New York; Catalogue on Request.
He stalked through Hynds House with slitted eyes and bristling
mustache--business of silent sleuth on the trail of the
furniture-fakir! He'd pause at each door and with an eagle glance
take a comprehensive survey; then, defensively, offensively, he
examined things in detail. From our rambling attics to our vast and
cavernous cellars did he go; and not a word crossed his lips until
he had completed this conandoyley examination.
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