A certain lady — (lady — lady — lady — ) daughter of a New England lumberman, seeking social distinction, espoused an ancient house agent (or Gott wot what) named Foster, a tripester, a chewed spaghetto, a cold Welsh rarebit. Now lively was the wench and high-coloured, with a mole between her buttocks, and her shoulder-blade fair and great as a wild strawberry. And she lived in Eighth Avenue New York, in an apartment house. Time made her bold, and she was gay and gracious, so that it pleased her perversion to wager with herself that she should enjoy a lover even in the bed with her goodman. Which device she prepared, bidding Sir Paramour enter softly through the unlatched door of the flat. But even as the other disciple did outrun Peter, so a citizen took the honor of that laggard lover. And this man was well bedrunken. A German-American was he, and well bedrunken, verily. So this one came upon the bed; the girl stirred not for caution, save to slip the sheet from off her body, and he knew not of her. “Nay!” quoth he to himself, “all men are equal; I will prove it heartily, and ease my nature.” So with a blast and fanfare of great trumpets, he stated clearly, and proved with mighty measure, and great weight, the proposition of democracy. Then Jeanne, that wanton wife and wise in Havelockellisry the gentle sport, divined her lover for a fantastic, and lay still. But ere he fled he seized what to him seemed a lever appropriate to that throne whereon he squatted touchwise and pulled thereon repeatedly, so that the lumpish cuckoldly lubberly lout of a husband, waking, bethought him of that word of James the apostle “Husbands, love your wives and be not bitter against them” and put his hand upon her knee. “Shut up! old satyr” she cried loud, “I never shall understand sex. Oh mother, save me! Stop! you rascal, what do you mean by trying to lead me away from Pewrity, the uplift, the Inner Life, the supra-sexual sexuality!” Whereat he laughed, the toothless old dog! Then she “You disgust me — you, with one foot in the grave!” Then he grabbed desperately — alas! — fell back, and murmured mournfully “I have at least one hand interred.”
No one of these three people could ever have been connected, however remotely, with any of the forebears of Sir Roger Bloxam.