“Taking snuff! is he? Then there is some hope,” said my mother.
During the last forty yards of my father’s walk, we each drew innumerable and often opposite conclusions, from his slightest gestures and motions, interpreting them all as favourable or unfavourable omens. In the course of five minutes my mother’s presentiments varied fifty times. At length came his knock at the door. My mother grew pale—to her ear it said “all’s lost;” to mine it sounded like “all’s safe.”
“He stays to take off his great coat! a good sign; but he comes heavily up stairs.” Our eyes were fixed on the door—he opened it, and advanced towards us without uttering one syllable.
“All’s lost—and all’s safe,” said my father. “My fortune’s safe, Mrs. Harrington.”
“What becomes of your presentiments, my dear mother?” said I.
“Thank Heaven!” said my mother, “I was wrong for once.”
“You might thank Heaven for more than once, madam,” said my father.
“But then what did you mean by all’s lost, Mr. Harrington; if all’s safe, how can all be lost?”
“My all, Mrs. Harrington, is not all fortune. There is such a thing as credit as well as fortune, Mrs. Harrington.”
“But if you have not lost your fortune, you have not lost your credit, I presume,” said my mother.