The subject of this serenity, however, went on in the same tone: “Have you got it in your pocket? Why don’t you put it on—why don’t you hang it round you?”
“I’ll hang it round you if you don’t look out!” cried Miss Ruck.
“Don’t you want to show it off to this gentleman?” he sociably continued.
“Mercy, how you do carry on!” his wife sighed.
“Well, I want to be lively. There’s every reason for it. We’re going up to Chamouni.”
“You’re real restless—that’s what’s the matter with you.” And Mrs. Ruck roused herself from her own repose.
“No, I ain’t,” said her husband. “I never felt so quiet. I feel as peaceful as a little child.”
Mrs. Ruck, who had no play of mind, looked at her daughter and at me. “Well, I hope you’ll improve,” she stated with a certain flatness.
“Send in the bills,” he went on, rising to match. “Don’t let yourself suffer from want, Sophy. I don’t care what you do now. We can’t be more than gay, and we can’t be worse than broke.”
Sophy joined her mother with a little toss of her head, and we followed the ladies to the carriage, where the younger addressed her father. “In your place, Mr. Ruck, I wouldn’t want to flaunt my meanness quite so much before strangers.”