“That's one way of considering it,” said Dalton, dubiously, for he was not quite sure whether he could or could not yield his concurrence.
“But if people did n't la-la-la—”
“Lay abed, you mean,” cried Dalton; “that's just what they do; a German wouldn't ask to awake at all, if it wasn't to light his pipe.”
“I meant la-la-labor; if they did n't la-labor the ground, we should all be starved.”
“No political economy, Scroope,” cried Mrs. Ricketts; “I will not permit it. That dreadful science is a passion with him, Mr. Dal ton.”
“Is it?” said Peter, confusedly, to whose ears the word “economy” only suggested notions of saving and sparing. “I can only say,” added he, after a pause, “tastes differ, and I never could abide it at all.”
“I was certain of it,” resumed Mrs. Ricketts; “but here comes a young lady towards us,—Miss Dalton, I feel it must be.”
The surmise was quite correct. It was Nelly, who, in expectation of meeting her father, had walked down from the house, and now, seeing a carriage, stood half irresolute what to do.
“Yes, that's Nelly,” cried Dalton, springing down to the ground; “she'll be off now, for she thinks it's visitors come to see the place.”
While Dalton hastened to overtake his daughter, Mrs. Ricketts had time to descend and shake out all her plumage,—a proceeding of manual dexterity to which Martha mainly contributed; indeed, it was almost artistic in its way, for while feathers were disposed to droop here, and lace taught to fall gracefully there, the fair Zoe assumed the peculiar mood in which she determined on conquest.