_She_. No, you are only the next thing to it--a shabby fellow. Why did
you ask me in that way when you knew we couldn't go?
_He_. How you do jump at lame and impotent conclusions! Who said we
could not go? I am sure I did not.
_She_. John Woodstock, if you don't stop this, and tell me what you
mean, I will never make you another shirt!
_He_. Small loss! Of all mean things, a homemade shirt is the meanest;
and why a man of my native nobility of character should be condemned
to wear them--
_Their aunt_ (distressedly). Children! children!--
_He_ (soothingly). Never mind, aunty: she did not mean it. She would
not put it out of her power to say that she had made every shirt I
ever wore for all the mines of Golconda.
_She_. What a small potato you are!
_He_. Now, my dear Marjory, how often must I tell you that calling a
fellow names is not arguing? If you could keep from being abusive for
five minutes, you might hear of something to your advantage. I have
a little money, for a wonder, but it is like the turkey--too much for
one, and not enough for two. You cannot go by yourself, for it is an
evening affair; but if you were not so frightfully vain about your
personal appearance, I think we could manage it. I heard you say
yesterday that you had the money for a new pair of gloves: if you will
sacrifice them, we can go, and in two weeks I can give you the gloves
besides.
Pages:
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237