"Mr. Blythe, if you will taste this salad I am sure you will not regret
it." And with hideous cunning I set the bucket beside him on the grass
and seated myself near it. The old dodo grunted and continued to daub the
canvas; but presently, as though forgetfully, and from sheer instinct, he
reached down into the bucket, pulled out a leaf of lettuce, and shoved it
into his mouth.
My heart leaped exultantly. I had him!
"Mr. Blythe," I began in a winningly modulated voice, and, at the same
instant, he sprang from his camp-chair, his face distorted.
"There are onions in this salad!" he yelled. "What the devil do you mean!
Are you trying to poison me! What are you following me about for, anyway?
Why are you running about under foot every minute!"
"My dear Mr. Blythe," I protested--but he barked at me, kicked over the
bucket of salad, and began to dance with rage.
[Illustration: "Kicked over the bucket of salad, and began to dance
with rage."]
"What's the matter with you, anyway!" he bawled. "Why are you trying to
feed me? What do you mean by trying to be attentive to me!"
"I--I admire and revere you--"
"No you don't!" he shouted. "I don't want you to admire me! I don't
desire to be revered! I don't like attention and politeness! Do you hear!
It's artificial--out of date--ridiculous! The only thing that recommends
a man to me is his bad manners, bad temper, and violent habits. There's
some meaning to such a man, none at all to men like you!"
He ran at the salad bucket and kicked it again.
"They all fawned on me in Boston!" he panted. "They ran about under foot!
They bought my pictures! And they made me sick! I came out here to be rid
of 'em!"