Miss Letty Drake, whose countenance was unpleasantly long in proportion to her height, and pallid, and her small figure bony, and who was dressed on this sad occasion in her silk “half-mourning,” a sad and, it was thought, a dyed garment, which had done duty during many periods of affliction, as William entered the room, was concluding a sentence with a low and pointed asperity, thus—“which seems to me hardly compatible with Saint Paul’s description of Christian charity,” and a short silence followed these words.
“I was going to ring the bell, William,” said the doomed lady of the house. “One would have thought you were making that snuff. Let me see it—h’m. See, get off this cover. Ho! what is this? A lead wrapper!”
“You said, Aunt Dinah, you wished it.”
“Did I? Well, no matter. Get it open. Thanks. Yes; that’s it. Yes; very good. You take snuff, doctor, don’t you?”
“Aw—yes, certainly, nothing like it, I do believe—where a man is obliged to work his head—aw haw—a stimulus and a sedative.”
The doctor, it was averred, “worked” his occasionally with brandy and water, and not a great deal otherwise.
“No, many thanks; don’t care for perfumes; high toast is my snuff.” And Doctor Drake illustrated the fact by a huge pinch, which shed another brown shower over the wrinkles of his waistcoat.
“Letty, dear,” said Aunt Dinah, turning suddenly to Miss Drake, “we won’t quarrel; we can’t agree, but I won’t quarrel.”
“Well, dear, I’m glad to hear you say so. I’m sure, for my part, I never quarrel. ‘Be ye angry, and let not the sun go down on your wrath.’”
