“Ay, indeed, we had it in black and white—that is, if we can call a bit of burnt—”
“Aunt Fanny, what are you about?” cried Miss Kennyfeck, in a voice of real terror, for she was shocked at the meanness she did not scruple to stoop to.
“Yes, Mr. Kennyfeck,” reiterated his wife, “we know all! If, however, you still persist in maintaining that mysterious aspect you have assumed with your family, I must say, sir, it is perfectly absurd.”
“It is unnecessary, too, papa,” cried Miss Kennyfeck.
“And it's unfair to that young creature,” chimed in Aunt Fanny, with a gesture towards Olivia, who sat, en tableau for injured innocence, next a window.
Possibly, if any could have read Mr. Kennyfeck's sentiments at that instant, they would have recognized the sufferings of a true martyr. To his own heart he muttered,—
“This is very hard; it is being called upon to reply to a case without a copy of the affidavits.”
At length, with a courage that he did not believe he was capable of, he said,—
“I am confused, Mrs. Kennyfeck; I am overwhelmed; I may submit a plea of surprise—that is, I would move the court, I mean—in fact, I must beg you will permit me to adjourn this case.”
And with these words, and in an agitation very unusual with him, he hastened from the room. Scarcely had the door closed after him, than he reopened it, and putting in his head, said,—