“And may I inquire what your great-grandfather was?”
“An ape, sir,” thundered Dumas, with a fierceness that made his impertinent interrogator shrink into the smallest possible compass. “An ape, sir; my pedigree commences where yours terminates.”
“Where have you been, Helen?” asked Caroline Swift of her sister, as Helen, with a package in one hand and some letters in the other, entered the parlour one severe winter’s day.
Caroline had been seated near the fire, sewing; but as her sister came in with the package, up the little girl sprang; and, allowing cotton, thimble, and work to find whatever resting-place they could, she hurried across the room; and, without so much as “By your leave, sister,” she caught hold of the letters and commenced asking questions as fast as her nimble tongue could move.
“Which question shall I answer first?” asked Helen, good-humouredly, trying, as she spoke, to slip a letter out of sight.
“Tell me whose letter you are trying to hide there,” cried Caroline, making an effort to thrust her hand into her sister’s pocket.
Helen held the pocket close, saying gravely, “Suppose I should tell you that this letter concerns no one but myself, and that I prefer not to name the writer?”
“Oh dear! some mighty mystery, no doubt. I didn’t suppose there was any harm in asking you a question.”
Caroline’s look and tone plainly indicated displeasure.