“I’m never goin’ to parties when I’m grown up, so what’s the use learning how to act at ’em now?” argued her son.
Charlotte dropped a mucilaged paper. “But you promised,” she reminded him anxiously; “you promised—”
“Oh, well—” admitted her son.
Charlotte kept a fire in her parlour. Coal was at a fabulous price in the South that winter, but she had never known a parlour without a fire, and here she and the children sat in the afternoons, the Captain often returning early and joining them.
“Georges,” said Charlotte upon one of these occasions, “we are poor.”
The Captain smoked in silence. Perhaps he had realized it before. His keen eyes, however, were regarding her.
“But,” said Charlotte, “we go on acting as though we were rich.”
“Just so,” said the Captain.
“When your trousers get shabby, you order more like them. Did you ever ask your tailor if he has anything cheaper?”
Now, trousers of that pearl tint peculiar to the finest fabrics were as characteristic a part of the Captain’s garb as were the black coat, the low-cut vest, the linen cambric handkerchiefs like small tablecloths for size, the tall silk hat, and the Henry Clay collar above the black silk stock.