After dinner the Bishop nodded in the direction of his chaplain and whispered to me,—
'It sings. Most painful. Very.'
So of course I asked it to. Aunt Constance accompanied its impassioned wail.
'If I should die
To-night,
My friends would look upon my face
With tears,
And kissing me, lay snow-white flowers against
My hair.
Keep not your kisses for my cold,
Dead face,
But let me feel them
Now.'
(Unknown author).
Father looked round the congregation with a cold eye. He has views about guests.
'Thank you very much, Mr Williams. Won't you sing something else?'
And Mr Williams went upstairs to get another.
'Oh,' sobbed Charlie Foxhill, laying his head down on Ross's shoulder, 'keep not your kisses for my cold——'
'No one,' my brother giggled, 'can look upon your face without tears, old thing, but you shall have snow-white flowers all right; here, can you feel them now?' and he shoved a camellia and several wet carnations down Charlie's collar, and the Bishop mopped his eyes and remarked in his best Oxford drawl,—
'Such a good chap, really, if he only wouldn't. Top-hole, very.'