“Very kind of you,” said Carraways; who, hooking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets, looked a little slily at the philanthropist. “You never come into the City? Humph! you’d be dreadfully shocked to see so many of your relations with brooms.”
“Of course,” said Candituft, as the best thing he could say. “But, my dear sir—here he is—introduce me.”
At this moment, Jericho, between his wife and eldest daughter, marched slowly up.
“Mr. Jericho, Mr. Candituft—the Hon. Mr. Candituft,” said Carraways: and, turning from the newly-known brethren, the host took Mrs. Jericho and Monica under his charge.
“You’ll find us somewhere, Jericho,” said the wife. “We must join dear Mrs. Carraways.”
“And sweet Bessy,” cried the emphatic Monica.
“Really, Mrs. Jericho, I should like to see your husband look somewhat stouter. Isn’t he a—a little thin?” asked Carraways.
“Oh, dear, no! not at all,” answered Mrs. Jericho, quite eagerly. “By no means.”
“Papa, you know, was always thin,” said Miss Pennibacker, so very confidently, that Carraways felt he ought to be mistaken. It was clear—Jericho was always thin. “Well, well, it’s my blunder; yet, I thought, perhaps, the shock of sudden property. By the way, I’m glad to hear such wonders of the mines.”
“Very kind of you, dear Mr. Carraways. But”—added Mrs. Jericho, philosophically and sonorously—“after all, what is money? Money cannot bestow happiness.”