“But he was so country,—so dreadful common,” protested Mrs. Tramlay, with her customary helpless air.
“Nonsense!” said her husband. “There was nothing country or common about his face and manners. There hasn’t been so bright-eyed, manly-looking a fellow in our house before since I don’t know when. Eh, Lucia?”
“Agnes Dinon said he was real fine-looking,” the girl answered.
“Agnes Dinon is thirty-six, if she’s a day,” said Mrs. Tramlay, in a petulant tone.
“So much the better fitted to pass opinions on young men,” said Tramlay. “Shows more sense in one girl of her age than a hundred like—like——”
“Like me, papa,” said Lucia. “You may as well say it.”
“Like you, then. Bless your dear ignorant heart, I’d give my head if you could see as clearly as she without waiting so long to learn.”
“You may be very sure, though, that Miss Agnes will never invite him to her own receptions,” declared Mrs. Tramlay.
“Wrong again, mamma; she’s invited him for next Tuesday night, and I do believe she devised the reception just for the purpose. None of us had heard of it before.”
Mrs. Tramlay gathered all her strength, stimulated it with an entire cup of tea, and exclaimed,—