"Why, surely," I exclaimed, crossing over to examine the animal
more closely, "why, yes, you've got Dick Dunkerman's cat."
He raised his face from the easel and glanced across at me.
"Yes," he said, "we can't live on ideals," and I, remembering,
hastened to change the conversation.
Since then I have met Pyramids in the rooms of many friends of
mine. They give him different names, but I am sure it is the same
cat, I know those green eyes. He always brings them luck, but they
are never quite the same men again afterwards.
Sometimes I sit wondering if I hear his scratching at the door.
THE MINOR POET'S STORY
"It doesn't suit you at all," I answered.
"You're very disagreeable," said she, "I shan't ever ask your
advice again."
"Nobody," I hastened to add, "would look well in it. You, of
course, look less awful in it than any other woman would, but it's
not your style."
"He means," exclaimed the Minor Poet, "that the thing itself not
being pre-eminently beautiful, it does not suit, is not in
agreement with you. The contrast between you and anything
approaching the ugly or the commonplace, is too glaring to be aught
else than displeasing.
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