‘You do not flatter my husband by such a supposition,’ said Laura, with an offended look.
‘My dear Laura, do you think a man can live his life without making acquaintance he would not care to exhibit in the glare of noonday? You know the old adage about poverty and strange bedfellows. I hope there is no treason in reminding you that Mr. Treverton was not always rich.’
‘No. I am not ashamed of his having been poor; but it would shame me if I thought he had any acquaintance in his poverty whom he would blush to own now he is rich. Will you begin your reading? The children are ready.’
The infants, flushed and towzled by their sports, had been ranged on benches by the joint efforts of Tom Sampson, his sister, and Celia Clare, and were now being regaled with cake and negus. Celia had placed a small table, with a pair of candles and a glass of water, at the end of the room, for the accommodation of the reader.
‘Silence!’ commanded Mr. Sampson, as Edward walked to his place, gave a little preparatory cough, and opened his book. ‘Silence for “The Jackdaw of Rheims.”’
‘The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal’s chair!
Bishop, and abbot, and prior were there;
Many a monk and many a friar,
Many a knight and many a squire,’
began Edward.