human imperfections of Bobball more than he could love those of Mrs. Perfect. In fact it rather seemed that Bobball was one large human imperfection—and lovable, while Mrs. Perfect was one small moral excellence—and admirable.
"I wonder if she's called Mrs. Perfect because she is perfect, or whether she's perfect because she's called Mrs. Perfect."
"Ask her," grunted the President.
But when they reached the spot on the sands where Mrs. Perfect was presiding over the picnic nominally given by Phyllis and Ethel, her young charges, she was quickly seen to be in one of her frequent moods which were quite unfavourable to the pursuit of investigations of a private and personal character. But faultily faultless, icily regular, and splendidly null, as she seemed to the children before the advent of Bobball, what words shall convey the correctness, propriety, and frozen rectitude of Mrs. Perfect's perfection when that man of war and wrath hove in sight.
"Hallo Bobball, darling!" hailed Boodle.
