He then sat down in a corner as far removed as was consistent with politeness from the other inhabitants of the apartment, and occupied himself with watching “Faginia,” her “mammy,” and the “things.”
“Aunt Tishy,” said Miss Herrick, indicating him with a movement of her bright head, as he sat withdrawn into his coign of vantage, like a hermit-crab within its shell, “that’s the new Englishman, Mr. Roden.”
“How yo’ do, sur? Hope yo’ coporosity segastuate fus rate, sur,” quoth the dusky dame, with an elephantine dab, supposed in the innocence of her Virginian heart to correspond to the courtesy of civilization.
“My what?” said Roden.
“She means she hopes you are well,” explained Virginia, about whose neck the raccoon was coiling himself with serpentine affection.
“Oh yes, thanks, very well. Are you?” said Roden.
“Gord! yes, sur; Tishy she al’uz well—ain’ she, honey?” This last appeal to Virginia.
“Oh yes,” said that young woman “’cep’ when you get th’ misery, or th’ year-ache in th’ middle o’ th’ coldest nights, an’ have me huntin’ all over creation for somethin’ to put in your year. Oh yes!”
“G’way, chile!” exclaimed the thus maligned personage, with an air of indignant sufferance. “If I didn’ know yer wuz jess projeckin’, I sutny would feel bade.”
“Oh no, you wouldn’t,” said her mistress, easily. “This one,” again indicating Roden, “’s goin’ in fur horse-racin’. Some of his horses’s comin’ day after to-morrer. That’s better’n Herefordshire cattle, ain’t it?”