Mrs. Fitz starts in horror.
"My father's old chest, and your mother's old corner cupboard!"
Mrs. Fitz, in an agony, walks the floor!
"The few broken or cracked pots, pans and dishes, we had—"
Nature quite "gin eout"—the exhausted Mrs. Fitzfaddle throws herself down upon the sumptuous conversazione, and absorbs her grief in the ample folds of a lace-wrought handkerchief (bought at Warren's—cost the entire profits of ten quintals of Fitzfaddle & Co.'s A No. 1 cod!), while the imperturbable Fitz drives on—
"Your mother's old cooking stove, Susan—the time and again, Susan, I've sat in that little kitchen—"
Mrs. Fitzfaddle shudders all over. Each reminiscence, so dear to Fitzfaddle, seems a dagger to her.
"With little Nanny—"
"You—you brute! You—you vulgar—you—you Fitzfaddle. Nanny! to call your daughter N-Nanny!"
"Nanny! why, yes, Nanny—" says the matter-of-fact head of the firm of Fitzfaddle & Co. "I believe we did intend to call the girl Nancy; we did call her Nanny, Mrs. Fitzfaddle; but, like all the rest, by your innovations, things have kept changing no better fast. I believe my soul that girl has had five changes in her name before you concluded it was up to the highest point of modern respectability. From Nancy you had it Nannette, from Nannette to Ninna, from Ninna to Naomi, and finally it was rested at Anna Antoinette De Orville Fitzfaddle! Such a mess of nonsense to handle my plain name."