Young Dale stopped playing with the Chow dog and grinned.

It behooved me to say something.

I said it with a bow and a wave of my hand: "Because, though your father was a lion-tamer, your mother was a woman." She appeared to reflect for a moment; then addressing Dale: "The answer doesn't amount to a ha'porth of cats'-meat, but you couldn't have got out of it like that." I was again disconcerted, but I remarked that he would learn in time when my mentorship was over and I handed him, a finished product, to society.
"How long will that be ?" she asked.
"I don't know.

Are you anxious for his immediate perfecting ?" Her shoulders gave what in ordinary women would have been a shrug: with her it was a slow ripple.

I vow if her neck had been bare one could have seen it undulate beneath the skin.
"What is perfection ?" "Can you ask ?" laughed Dale.