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The Dark Rose of Ireland and the White Rose of Devon, a noted Society phrasemonger had dubbed them, seeing them together on the lawn one Ascot Cup Day, their light draperies and delicate ribbons whip-whipping in the pleasant June breeze, ivory-skinned, jetty-locked Celtic beauty and blue-eyed, flaxen-locked Saxon fairness in charming, confidential juxtaposition under one lace sunshade, lined with what has been the last new fashionable colour under twenty names, since then; only that year they called it Rose fané.

At one time he was a phrasemonger for politicians, especially for the Irish members, who were the only ones that paid.

If Robespierre had been a statesman instead of a phrasemonger, he had a clear course.

Mr. Polly’s conception of his own pose and expression was rendered by that uncontrollable phrasemonger at the back as “Obsequies Deference.”

How about chump chops?” said the phrasemonger with an air of inspiration.