“I'm going—I'm going, young lady; but I suppose I may drink my cup of tea first—it's the last I 'll ever taste in the same house;” and she reseated herself at the table with a most provoking composure. “I came here,” resumed she, “for no advantage of mine. I leave you without regret, because I see how your poor fool of a father, and your vain, conceited mother—”
“Aunt, you are really too bad. Have you no feeling?”
“That's just what comes of it,” said she, stirring her tea tranquilly. “You set up for people of fashion, and you don't know that people of fashion are twice as shrewd and 'cute as yourself. Faith, my dear, they'd buy and sell you, every one. What are they at all day, but roguery and schemes of one kind or other, and then after 'doing' you, home they go, and laugh at your mother's vulgarity!”
A fresh torrent of cries from Mrs. Kennyfeck seemed to show that unconsciousness was not among her symptoms, and Miss Kennyfeck now hastened from the room to summon her father to her aid.
“Well, you've come to turn me out, I suppose?” said Aunt Fanny, as the old gentleman entered in a state of perplexity that might have evoked the compassion of a less determined enemy.
“My dear Miss Fanny—”
“None of your four courts blarney with me, sir; I'm ready to go—I 'll leave by the coach to-night. I conclude you 'll have the decency to pay for my place, and my dinner too, for I 'll go to Dawson's Hotel this minute. Tell your mother, and that poor dawdle there, your sister, that they 'd be thankful they'd have followed my advice. The rate you're living, old gentleman, might even frighten you. There's more waste in your kitchen than in Lord Clondooney's.
“As for yourself, Caroline, you 're the best of the lot; but your tongue, darling!—your tongue!” And here she made a gesture of far more expressive force than any mere words could give.
“Is she gone?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, as a slight lull succeeded.
“Yes, mamma,” whispered Miss Kennyfeck; “but speak low, for Mr. Phillis is in the hall.”