CHAPTER XXVIII.
“Merton, you are not conscious of the extent of your infatuation, which has already excited comment in our limited circle of acquaintances.”
“Indeed! The members of ‘our limited circle of acquaintances’ are heartily welcome to whatever edification or amusement they may be able to derive from the discussion of my individual affairs, or the analysis of my peculiar tastes. You forget, my dear Constance, that to devour and in turn be devoured is an inexorable law of this world; and if my eccentricities furnish a ragout for omnivorous society, I should be 378 philanthropically glad that tittle-tattledom owes me thanks.”
The speaker did not lay aside the newspaper that partially concealed his countenance; and when he ceased speaking, his eyes reverted to the statistical table of Egyptian and Algerine cotton, which for some moments he had been attentively examining.
“My dear brother, you are spasmodically and provokingly philosophical! Pray do me the honor to discard that stupid Times, which you pore over as if it were the last sensation novel, and be so courteous as to look at me while you are talking,” replied the invalid sister, beating a tattoo on the side of her couch.
“I believe I have nothing to communicate just now,” was the quiet and unsatisfactory answer, as he drew a pencil from his pocket and made some numeral annotations on the margin of the statistics.
“Surely, Merton, you are not angry with your poor Constance?”
Merton Minge lowered his paper, restored the pencil to his vest pocket, and wheeling his chair forward, brought himself closer to the couch.