“Enough, my dear Mr. Kenrick!” exclaimed Laura.
But he was not to be stopped. He rose and paced the room, and continued: “The cui bono of phenomena must of course be found in the mind that regards them. ‘I can’t find you both arguments and brains,’ said Dr. Johnson to a noodle who thought Milton trashy. One man sees an apple fall, and straightway thinks of the price of cider. Newton sees it, and it suggests gravitation. One man sees a table rise in the air, and cries: ‘It can’t be a spirit; ’t is too undignified for a spirit!’ Mountford sees it, and the immortality of the soul is thenceforth to him a fact as positive as any fact of science.”
“Your story, dear Mr. Kenrick, your story!” urged Laura.
“My story is ended. The ghost has come and vanished.”
“Is that all?” whined Laura. “Are n’t we, then, to have a story?”
“In mercy give us some music, Miss Brown,” said Onslow.
“Play Yankee Doodle, with variations,” interposed Kenrick.
“Not unless you’d have the windows smashed in,” pleaded Onslow; and, giving his arm, he waited on Clara to the piano.
She[She] dashed into a medley of brilliant airs from operas, uniting them by extemporized links of melody to break the abruptness of the transitions. The young men were both connoisseurs; and they interchanged looks of gratified astonishment.
“And now for a song!” exclaimed Laura.