“Jane!” Mr. Lambert turned to her, his spectacles glistening warningly. There was a moment’s silence.
“Do you wish to leave the table?”
“No, Papa, but—”
“Very well, then. Have the goodness to be quiet.”
“Yes, Papa. But—”
“Silence, ma’am! Your brother was quite right. He is older than you, and he had good reason to reprimand you.”
Jane meekly subsided; but when her father had withdrawn his gaze, she refreshed herself by making a most hideous grimace at her brother, who, more complacent than ever, retaliated with a look of icy and withering scorn.
By this time, Mr. Lambert had almost finished a second reading of the letter, while his wife scanned his face anxiously, not daring to urge him to share its news with her. It covered three or four pages of cheap paper, and was written in a great, sprawling script that consumed one sheet in six or seven lines.
“It looks as if it were written by a sailor,” murmured Jane, without lifting her eyes, and seemingly speaking to herself; and in the same dreamy undertone, she explained this singular observation, “Everything about a sailor is sort of loose and blowy; they’ve got blowy coats, and blowy neckties, and blowy trousers—”
“You’ve never seen a sailor,” said Carl also in a low tone, “so you don’t know what you’re talking about.”