“Will you walk in?” said the pair.
Mrs. Riley, standing in the door of her parlor, made way by descending to the sidewalk. Her calico was white, with a small purple figure, and was highly starched and beautifully ironed. Purple ribbons were at her waist and throat. As she reached the ground Mary introduced Narcisse. She smiled winningly, and when she said, with a courtesy: “Proud to know ye, sur,” Narcisse was struck with the sweetness of her tone. But she swept away with a dramatic tread.
“Will you walk in?” Mary repeated; and Narcisse responded:—
“If you will pummit me yo’ attention a few moment’.” He bowed again and made way for Mary to precede him.
“Mistoo Itchlin,” he continued, going in, “in fact you don’t give Misses Witchlin my last name with absolute co’ectness.”
“Did I not? Why, I hope you’ll pardon”—
“Oh, I’m glad of it. I don’ feel lak a pusson is my fwen’ whilst they don’t call me Nahcisse.” He directed his remark particularly to Mary.
“Indeed?” responded she. “But, at the same time, Mr. Richling would have”— She had turned to John, who sat waiting to catch her eye with such intense amusement betrayed in his own that she saved herself from laughter and disgrace only by instant silence.
“Yesseh,” said Narcisse to Richling, “’tis the tooth.”
He cast his eye around upon the prevailing hair-cloth and varnish.