"He's the supreme representative of the highest highbrowed culture, isn't he?
He's a lord high admiral, duke, or potentate of some sort, in the world of loftiest thought, isn't he?
He lives, moves and has his being in the lofty realms of the purely spiritual, doesn't he?
He's cultured, and cultivated, and spiritualized, until he vibrates nothing but pure soul--whatever that means--and he's refined himself, and mental-disciplined himself, and soul-dominated himself, until there's not an ounce of red blood left in his carcass.

Get him between you and the sun, after what he calls a dinner, and you can see every material mouthful that he, has disgraced himself by swallowing.

He's not human, I tell you; he's only a kind of a he-ghost, and ought to be fed on sterilized moonbeams and pasteurized starlight." "Amen!" said Patches solemnly, when Phil paused for lack of breath.
"But, Phil, your eloquent characterization does not explain what the he-ghost has to do with the sale of the Pot-Hook-S outfit." Phil's voice again dropped into its hopeless key as he answered.

"You remember how, from the very first, Kitty--well--sort of worshiped him, don't you ?" "You mean how she worshiped his aesthetic cult, don't you ?" corrected Patches quietly.
"I suppose that's it," responded Phil gloomily.

"Well, Uncle Will says that they have been together mighty near every day for the past three months, and that about half of the time they have been over at Kitty's home.