“Well, John, you know the Follingsbees are coming next week?”
“I know it,” said John, looking amiable and conciliatory.
“Well, dear, there are some things about our establishment that are not just as I should feel pleased to receive them to.”
“Ah!” said John; “why, Lillie, I thought we were fine as a fiddle, from the top of the house to the bottom.”
“Oh! it’s not the house; the house is splendid. I shouldn’t be in the least ashamed to show it to anybody; but about the table arrangements.”
“Now, really, Lillie, what can one have more than real old china and heavy silver plate? I rather pique myself on that; I think it has quite a good, rich, solid old air.”
“Well, John, to say the truth, why do we never have any wine? I don’t care for it,—I never drink it; but the decanters, and the different colored glasses, and all the apparatus, are such an adornment; and then the Follingsbees are such judges of wine. He imports his own from Spain.”
John’s face had been hardening down into a firm, decided look, while Lillie, stroking his whiskers and playing with his collar, went on with this address.
At last he said, “Lillie, I have done almost every thing you ever asked; but this one thing I cannot do,—it is a matter of principle. I never drink wine, never have it on my table, never give it, because I have pledged myself not to do it.”
“Now, John, here is some more of your Quixotism, isn’t it?”