Home Life.
“My dear Miss Tippet, I shall never, no never, get over it.”
So said, and so undoubtedly thought, a thin little old lady with remarkably bright eyes, and a sweet old face, as she sat sipping tea at Miss Tippet’s elbow.
It was in the drawing-room of Miss Deemas that she sat, and the Eagle sat opposite to her.
“It was very dreadful,” responded Miss Tippet with a sigh—“very.”
“It was awful. I know I shall never get over it,—never,” repeated the little old lady, finishing her tea, and asking for another cup in the calmest possible voice, with the sweetest possible smile.
“Oh yes, you will, Mrs Denman,” said Miss Deemas snappishly.
“No, indeed, I won’t,” repeated Mrs Denman; “how can I? Just think of the situation. Sitting in my chair in dishabille, when a man—a Man, Miss Dee—”
“Well, I know what a man is,” said the Eagle bitterly; “why don’t you go on?”
“Burst himself through my bedroom-door,” continued Mrs Denman, “with lime and charcoal and brick-dust and water streaming down his face—f–fo-olded me in his arms, bore me out into the street—the street! Oh! I shall never, never get over it; and so little, so very little clothing on me—”