"You mean that you had meant to lump the imports and escape the tax altogether?" we asked.
"Something like that."
"And the officer's idea of caressing irony was to let you think you could escape equally well by being perfectly candid?"
"Something like that."
"And what was the other occasion?"
"Oh, it was when I had a letter to the customs officer, and he said it would be all right, and then furnished me an inspector who opened every piece of my baggage just as if I had been one of the wicked."
We could not help laughing, and our friend grinned appreciatively. "And what was that supreme instance of caressing irony which you experienced in Boston?" we pursued.
"Ah, there is something I don't think you can question. But I didn't experience it; I merely observed it. We were coming down the stairs to take our hack at the foot of the pier, and an elderly lady who was coming down with us found the footing a little insecure. The man in charge bade her be careful, and then she turned upon him in severe reproof, and scolded him well. She told him that he ought to have those stairs looked after, for otherwise somebody would be killed one of these days. 'Well, ma'am,' he said, 'I shouldn't like that. I was in a railroad accident once. But I tell you what you do. The next time you come over here, you just telephone me, and I'll have these steps fixed. Or, I'll tell you: you just write me a letter and let me know exactly how you want 'em fixed, and I'll see to it myself.'"
"That was charming," we had to own, "and it was of an irony truly caressing, as you say. Do you think it was exactly respectful?"
"It was affectionate, and I think the lady liked it as much as any of us, or as the humorist himself."