"I'm like a dashed volcano, Andrew!"
His son looked at him piteously. To suffer this sea change was bad enough, but to laugh about it was diabolical. Mr. Walkingshaw could not but sober down under such an eye. He gathered his countenance into an aspect as portentously solemn as his dwindled wrinkles could achieve. His son grieved afresh to see how their passing diminished the once overpowering respectability of his parent.
"It's an awful predicament," said Mr. Walkingshaw, shaking his bronzing head.
"Awful—just awful! What will people say?"
"That's just what I've been wondering. How am I going to break it to them?"
"You're not going to tell people!"
"But they'll notice for themselves."
Andrew gazed at him gloomily.
"It may pass off,"—his face cleared a little,—"in fact, it's certain to."