He is very tall and shambling, wears a ragged
beard and a broad Stetson hat, and suffers amazingly from hay fever
in the autumn. (In fact, his essay on "Hay Fever" is the best thing
he ever wrote, I think.) As he came striding up the road I noticed
how his trousers fluttered at the ankles as the wind plucked at
them. The breeze curled his beard back under his chin and his face
was quite dark with anger. I couldn't help being amused; he looked
so funny.
"The Sage looks like Bernard Shaw," whispered Mifflin.
I always believe in drawing first blood.
"Good-morning, Andrew," I called cheerfully. "Want to buy any
books?" I halted Pegasus, and Andrew stood a little in front of
the wheel--partly out of breath and mostly out of temper.
"What on earth is this nonsense, Helen?" he said angrily. "You've
led me the deuce of a chase since yesterday. And who is this--this
person you're driving with?"
"Andrew," I said, "you forget your manners. Let me introduce Mr.
Mifflin. I have bought his caravan and am taking a holiday, selling
books.
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