Her husband urged the matter no farther. A few minutes afterwards, he drew out a straw from a bundle, which one of the children held.
“This is a fine straw!” said he, carelessly.
“Fine straw!” cried Mrs. Bolingbroke: “no—that is very coarse. This,” continued she, pulling one from another bundle; “this is a fine straw, if you please.”
“I think mine is the finest,” said Mr. Bolingbroke.
“Then you must be blind, Mr. Bolingbroke,” cried the lady, eagerly comparing them.
“Well, my dear,” said he, laughing, “we will not dispute about straws.”
“No, indeed,” said she; “but I observe whenever you know you are in the wrong, Mr. Bolingbroke, you say, we will not dispute, my dear: now pray look at these straws, Mrs. Granby, you that have eyes—which is the finest?”
“I will draw lots,” said Emma, taking one playfully from Mrs. Bolingbroke; “for it seems to me, that there is little or no difference between them.”
“No difference? Oh, my dear Emma!” said Mrs. Bolingbroke.
“My dear Griselda,” cried her husband, taking the other straw from her and blowing it away; “indeed it is not worth disputing about: this is too childish.”