"Git it? No!"
"What!"
"I said no!"
"But who did, then?"
"The parson."
"What! Parson John?"
"Certainly. Who else would he fool enough to interfere with me?"
"Well, well!" ejaculated Mrs. Farrington. "Do tell us about it, Si?"
"No, not a word more about it," snapped her husband, "till we git down to
dinner. I'm most starved. Is it ready?"
"Dear me, yes. I'd clean fergot about it," and Mrs. Farrington bustled off
to the kitchen.
Everything in the dining-room betokened care and industry, from the
nicely-papered walls, adorned with pictures, to the large sideboard, with
its display of old china and glassware. The table-linen was spotlessly
clean, and the food served up was well cooked. But, notwithstanding this,
something seemed wrong. An indefinable atmosphere pervaded the place which
spoiled the effect of it all. It was not the corrupted English falling
from the lips of these people which grated so harshly upon the senses. It
was the spirit of pretence which overshadowed everything--the effort to be
what they were not. Had old Titbottom been there with his magic
spectacles, he would have beheld in Farrington little more than a roll of
bills; in his wife the very essence of pretence and ambition; while the
daughter Eudora and their son Dick would be labelled "exact samples" of
the parents.
Pages:
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72