But Martha, hardened to a lifetime of like panegyrics, was not to be diverted.
“Yes, miss. So I say. We must do something.”
“The telephone! It shall go at the end of the month.”
“And there’s that there Duchess, Miss Enid, sittin’ in there in a gold frame, not doin’ no good to nobody. The collector gentleman said it would bring its price, miss.”
I came to earth with a thud, and retrod the battlefield peopled by ghosts of past encounters. The Fierienti Duchess, my grandmother’s great-great-grandmother, had been the family mascot for generations. Cary Penwick alone, as grandma’s last surviving male relative, should have the responsibility of the Laughing Duchess.
“But, don’t forget it’s yours, Miss,” Martha held on. “Your grandma says, ‘Martha,’ she says, ‘take care of her always, and keep the Duchess dusted!’ ‘I will, ma’am,’ says I, ‘long as there’s breath in my veins!’ says I. ‘Tenny rate, Miss Enid, there’s that there Chinese idol settin’ on his heels, lookin’ enough like Wung Loo at the laundry to be his brother—”
This of thee, O shade of Buddha!
“—And that boy with wings on his feet, ’stead of skates—”
And thou, immortal Mercury!
“—You could get as high as two hundred for ’em, maybe.”