"Are you raving? Who is it?"
"His wife! the dotard! the foolish old greybeard!"
"Josephine! you cannot mean your father!"
"I do mean him; and he is a doting fool, to be playing the sighing lover at his age—and to whom? A baby-faced chit, just out of her teens! a spoiled doll of a thing whose prattle and tricks have addled his brains—if he ever had any. I won't stay here! I will beg my bread in the street first!"
"But he is not married yet; you may be mistaken. How did your hear it?"
"From himself, on our way to that detestable ball. I wish he, and she, and it, were at the bottom of the Dead Sea! He commenced 'Josey, my dear!'—Oh, the deceitful villain!"
"Josephine!" said Ida, shuddering.
"He is! and I will say it! 'Josey'—said he, simpering and giggling like a shame-faced school-boy.—'Can you guess why I consented to your having that dress?"
"Because I liked it—I suppose, sir."
"'No, my dear;—I had my reasons for wishing you to look well to-night. I expect to meet a friend at the ball, to whom I shall introduce you.'