“Won’t need no wraps, Miss Lyndsay. Rain’s done. There fell a power of water.”
“What a voice, Aunt Anne!” said Rose. “It ’s like the boom of the sea.”
“He explodes,—he doesn’t speak; a conversational cannonade.”
“Hush,” said Mrs. Lyndsay, the mother; “he is quite sensitive about it. He was with us last year, and a very good man, too, as I know.”
“Canoe is ready, sir.”
“It is like a parting salute,” said Rose.
“Well, my dear,” whispered Miss Anne, “it will be a fine reminder for a certain person; all things have their uses.”
“Thanks, Aunt Anne. A certain person has a not uncertain consciousness that she doesn’t need it. Folks complain that we women speak too loud. I am sure our men have lost their voices. As for the English women you admire so much, I could hardly understand them at all, with their timid, thin voices, and fat a’s.”
“Stuff!” said Miss Anne. “That is English.”
“I prefer Shakspere’s English,” said Rose. “I advise them to read ‘Love’s Labor’s Lost.’”