There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. ’ ‘Pah!’ scoffed Melusine. His glances were hard to disguise as he scanned her periodically during class. Around him were all the evidences of plenty. The woman shrugged her shoulders. Here again the clothes were minus the labels. Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. You must forgive the poet’s license I take.
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