“She’s a rich widow,” continued Mrs. Sharp; and from that the talk went on, running altogether upon flowers, laces, and ribbons, hats, bonnets, and dresses, and the latest styles for each.
“What puerilities!” remarked Mr. Sharp at length; “but the average female mind seems capable of dwelling upon nothing but trifles.”
“And some male bodies—not a few either—appear to be quite willing to live upon—”
“Hetty, Hetty,” interrupted her mother, “don’t be personal.”
“Humph! let her talk!” he said with sarcasm; “it amuses her and harms no one. It’s no fault of hers that she wasn’t given an intellect capable of appreciating literary labor.”
“Very true,” remarked his wife. “How does the work progress, Thorne? I hope this has been a good day for you.”
“A woman of sense, knowing how my morning nap was broken in upon by unnecessary noises, and how very unsuitable was the breakfast served up to me afterward, would not ask such a question,” he answered loftily.
“Come, girls,” said his wife, rising hastily, “I think we are all done, and there’s not a minute to be lost.”
Floy rose with the others and accompanied them to the work-room.