“Will you oblige me, Mr. Jericho, by looking at that?” and Mrs. Jericho handed in the Carraways’ letter.
“Oh! Ha!” cried Jericho—“An invitation to their grand party. Very kind of ’em. People who ought to be cultivated. Considering the money they have, they don’t hold their head quite high enough, to be sure; nevertheless, very good people; very rich people. We shall go, my dear, of course.”
Mrs. Jericho folded her hands together, dropt them gently into her lap, then turned her very placid face full in the face of her husband, and slowly, and very anxiously put to him these words—“And how are we to go, Mr. Jericho?”
“How, my dear!” cried Jericho, in the darkest ignorance—“How would you go?”
“As your family, Mr. Jericho; as your wife and daughters”—said the lady, “we ought to go drest.”
“Why, yes, my dear”—said Jericho—“’twould look very particular, if you didn’t. He! he!”
“I admire wit, true wit, Mr. Jericho,” said the lady, with a pitying smile; “but no real gentleman ever descends to humour. Major Pennibacker never—but that is not the question. In a word, Mr. Jericho, your wife and daughters have no clothes to go in. Therefore, as you have decided to accept the invitation, may I ask, when can you let me have some money?”
Jericho dropt the paper, pushed himself from the table, and groaned.
“Oh, very well, very well”—said Mrs. Jericho, with cutting vivacity—“I can write a refusal: of course; we are ill, or are going out of town, or have a better engagement; anything will do.”
“Now, my dear creature, will you be reasonable?” cried Jericho, intreatingly. “What do you want?”