I deemed it dignified only to say, “Yes, sir.”
“My dear,” he continued, addressing mother, and taking a cigar from his case, “you have some clothing getting ready for her, have you not? As she didn’t bring her baggage on the door I presume her wardrobe is scanty, so much so that she can exclaim, with the fallen Cardinal:
‘My robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all
I dare now call mine own.’”
“Oh, Col. Smith,” said mother, reproachfully, “do not jest at her misfortunes.”
“Not jesting, my dear, not jesting; but, since poor Wolsey’s time, I suppose she is the only one who could boast any integrity, when limited to a single robe. However, we have not proved her yet—Wolsey may still be alone.”
“That is worse than jesting,” returned mother, with a smile the good Samaritan might have worn, “you are blotting her with suspicion before you have ever seen her.”
“We will assume, then, for your good hearted sake,” said father, blowing out the words on each side of the cigar he was lighting, “that she is an angel, and let her prove her wings.”
“I am sure that she will,” said mother, as she rang her table bell for the servants to clear off the tea things.