"Anna Antoinette De Orville"—said Mrs. Fitz, suddenly rallying, "is a name, only made plain by your ugly and countryfied prefix. De Orville is a name," said the lady.
"I should like to know," said the old gentleman, "upon what pretext, Mrs. Fitzfaddle, you lay claim to such a Frenchy and flighty name or title as De Orville?"
"Wasn't it my family name, you brute?" cried Mrs. Fitz.
"Ho! ho! ho! Sook, Sook, Sook," says Fitzfaddle.
"Sook!" almost screams Mrs. Fitz.
"Yes, Sook, Sook Scovill, daughter of a good old-fashioned, patriotic farmer—Timothy Scovill, of Tanner's Mills, in the county of Tuggs—down East. And when I married Sook (Mrs. Fitz jumped up, a rustling of silk is heard—a door slams, and the old gentleman finishes his domestic narrative, solus!), she was as fine a gal as the State ever produced. We were poor, and we knew it; wasn't discouraged or put out, on the account of our poverty. We started in the world square; happy as clams, nothing but what was useful around us; it is a happy reflection to look back upon those old chairs, pine table, my father's old chest, and Sook's mother's old corner cupboard—the cracked pots and pans—the old stove—Sook as ruddy and bright as a full-blown rose, as she bent over the hot stove in our parlor, dining room, and kitchen—turning her slap-jacks, frying, baking and boiling, and I often by her side, with our first child, Nanny, on my—"
"Well, I hope by this time you're over your vulgar Pigginsborough recollections, Fitzfaddle!" exclaims Mrs. Fitz, re-entering the parlor.
"I was just concluding, my dear, the happy time when I sat and read to you, or held Nanny, while you—"
"Fitzfaddle, for goodness' sake—"
"While you—ruddy and bright, my dear, as the full-blown rose, bent over your mother's old cook stove—"