“I had no intention of being funny, I assure you.”
“While not distinctly humorous, the idea of your forbidding me is, well—oh, my gracious, Eunice, listen to this: ‘The man chosen for Hanlon’s “guide” is the Hon. James L. Mortimer—’—h’m—’High Street—’ Why, Eunice, I’ve heard of Mortimer—he’s—”
“I don’t care who he is, Aunt Abby, and I wish you’d drop the subject.”
“I won’t drop it—it’s too interesting! Oh, my! I wish we could go out there in the big car—then we could follow him round—”
“Hush! Go out to Newark in the car! Trail round the streets and alleys after a fool mountebank! With a horde of gamins and low, horrid men crowding about—”
“They won’t be allowed to crowd about!”
“And yelling—”
“I admit the yelling—”
“Aunt Abby, you’re impossible!” Eunice rose, and scowled irately at her aunt. Her temper, always quick, was at times ungovernable, and was oftenest roused at the suggestion of any topic or proceeding that jarred on her taste. Exclusive to the point of absurdity, fastidious in all her ways, Mrs. Embury was, so far as possible, in the world but not of it.
Both she and her husband rejoiced in the smallness of their friendly circle, and shrank from any unnecessary association with hoi polloi.