“It looked a little damp, at one time, for farce-comedy,” said Cornish. “I wonder how deep it was out there!”
“Miss Trescott was quite drenched,” said Mr. Barr-Smith, as we got into the carriages. “Too bad, by Jove!”
“You may write home,” said Antonia, “an account of being shipwrecked in the top of a tree!”
“Good, good!” said Cecil, and we all joined in the laugh, until we were suddenly sobered by the fact that Antonia had bowed her head on Alice’s lap, and was sobbing as if her heart was broken.
CHAPTER XII.
In which the Burdens of Wealth Begin to Fall upon Us.
If the town be considered as a quiescent body pursuing its unluminous way in space, Mr. Elkins may stand for the impinging planet which shocked it into vibrant life. I suggested this nebular-hypothesis simile to Mr. Giddings, one day, as the germ of an editorial.
“It’s rather seductive,” said he, “but it won’t do. Carry your interplanetary collision business to its logical end, and what do you come to? Gaseousness. And that’s just what the Angus Falls Times, the Fairchild Star, and the other loathsome sheets printed in prairie-dog towns around here accuse us of, now. No; much obliged; but as a field for comparisons the tried old solar system is good enough for the Herald.”