“Drill?” asked Janice. “What drill?”
“Let us call it quadrille, since that is not the material part,” said Charles. “What is to the point is that after—after doing what took me, I stayed to help in Guy Fawkes’ fun on the green.”
“Well?” questioned the girl, encouragingly.
“The frolickers had some empty tar barrels and an effigy of the Pope, and they gave him and a copy of the Boston Port Bill each a coat of tar and leaves, and then burned them.”
“What fun!” cried Janice, ceasing to stir in her interest. “I wish mommy would let me go. She says ’t is unbecoming in the gentility, but I don’t see why being well born should be a reason for not having as good a time as—”
“As servants?” interrupted Fownes, hotly, as if her words stung him.
“I’m afraid, Charles,” reproved Janice, assuming again a severe manner, “that you have a very bad temper.”
Perhaps the man might have retorted, but instead he let the anger die from his face, as he fixed his eyes on the floor. “I have, Miss Janice,” he acknowledged sadly, after a moment’s pause, “and ’t is the curse of my life.”
“You should discipline it,” advised Miss Meredith, sagely. “When I lose my temper, I always read a chapter in the Bible,” she added, with a decidedly “holier than thou” in her manner.
“How many times hast thou read the good book through, Miss Janice?” asked Fownes, smiling, and Miss Meredith’s virtuous pose became suddenly an uncomfortable one to the young lady.