“And you know what I have told you before, my dear Sutherland, that I must go to New York for the anniversary week. And by the way, my dear Damon, why cannot you stop a few days before you go South, and attend some of these meetings?”
“Me! Heavens! You shock me! You deprive me of words—of breath! I! a Mississippian! Why, look you; if I were to attend one of those meetings, and if it should be known in my neighborhood, my friends would turn me off, my uncles disinherit me, and my father rise from his grave to reproach me. Sir, my friends and relatives are ‘of the most straitest sect of the Pharisees!’”
“And do you share their opinions?”
“Opinions? Opinions, my dear fellow! I have no opinions. Opinions, it appears to me, are the currency of—of—those who have nothing else to offer in exchange for a living.”
“Levity! Oh, Mark, how you sin against your own fine mind!”
“Oh! come, come, come, no more of that. ‘Sir, praise is very flat, except from the fair sex.’”
“Ah! I see you are hopelessly flighty to-night. Good night.”
“Good night. Stay; you will go with me?”
“No; unless you first accompany me to New York, and remain through the anniversary week, and attend the meetings.”
“And hear myself traduced, slandered, abused, cursed! A pleasant invitation—thank you.”