“Joe? Boy’s name. Well, if you insist upon it. As I was saying, you have seen John Harrington, now.”
“Exactly,” repeated Joe.
“But I mean, how does he strike you?”
“Clever I should think,” answered the young lady. “Clever, you know–that sort of thing. Not bad looking, either.”
“I told you so,” said Miss Schenectady.
“Yes–but I expected ever so much more from what you said,” returned Joe, kneeling on the rug before the fire and poking the coals with the tongs. Miss Schenectady looked somewhat offended at the slight cast upon her late guest.
“You are very difficile, Josephi–I mean Joe, I forgot.”
“Ye–es, very diffyseal–that sort of thing,” repeated Josephine, mimicking her aunt’s pronunciation of the foreign word, “I know I am, I can’t possibly help it, you know.” A dashing thrust with the tongs finally destroyed the equilibrium of the fire, and the coals came tumbling down upon the hearth.
“Goodness gracious me!” exclaimed the old lady in great anxiety, “you will have the house on fire in no time! Give me the tongs right away, my dear. You do not understand American fires!”