Mr. Carson rolled up his napkin and inserted it in the ring. His board, as it happened, was paid in full to date. Also, although he had not yet declared his intention, he intended changing lodgings at the end of the week.
“Humph!” he sniffed, with sarcasm, “it may be. I couldn’t get none in my room if I wanted it, so I can’t say sure. Morning.”
He departed hurriedly. Mrs. Hepton looked disconcerted. Mrs. Van Winkle Ruggles smiled meaningly across the table at Miss Sherborne, who smiled back.
Mr. Ludlow, the bookseller, quietly observed that he hoped Mr. Pearson had not gotten cold. Colds were prevalent at this time of the year. “‘These are the days when the Genius of the weather sits in mournful meditation on the threshold,’ as Mr. Dickens tells us,” he added. “I presume he sits on the sills of open windows, also.”
The wife of the Mr. Dickens there present pricked up her ears.
“When did you write that, ‘C.’ dear?” she asked, turning to her husband. “I remember it perfectly, of course, but I have forgotten, for the moment, in which of your writings it appears.”
The illustrious one’s mouth being occupied with a section of scorching hot waffle, he was spared the necessity of confession.
“Pardon me,” said Mr. Ludlow. “I was not quoting our Mr. Dickens this time, but his famous namesake.”
The great “C.” drowned the waffle with a swallow of water.
“Maria,” he snapped, “don’t be so foolish. Ludlow quotes from—er—‘Bleak House.’ I have written some things—er—similar, but not that. Why don’t you pass the syrup?”