To my amazement he stooped, picked her up, and placed her sitting
upon a high pedestal of black marble in the angle of the hall.
It was at least seven feet high, and so thin that she could hardly
balance upon it. A more absurd object than she presented cocked
up there with her face convulsed with anger, her feet dangling,
and her body rigid for fear of an upset, I could not imagine.

"Let me down!" she wailed.

"Say `please.'"

"You brute, George! Let me down this instant!"

"Come into the study, Mr. Malone."

"Really, sir----!" said I, looking at the lady.

"Here's Mr. Malone pleading for you, Jessie.
Say `please,' and down you come."

"Oh, you brute! Please! please!"

"You must behave yourself, dear. Mr. Malone is a Pressman.
He will have it all in his rag to-morrow, and sell an extra
dozen among our neighbors. `Strange story of high life'--you
felt fairly high on that pedestal, did you not? Then a sub-title,
`Glimpse of a singular menage.' He's a foul feeder, is Mr. Malone,
a carrion eater, like all of his kind--porcus ex grege diaboli--
a swine from the devil's herd. That's it, Malone--what?"