“Now, Mr. Jones,” said she, as she handed him his cup of tea, “what is it you are going to say? Do out with it; for you’ve been chawing something or other over in your mind ever since you came into the house.”
“It’s my tobacher, I s’pose,” said Mr. Jones, with another knowing glance of his eye.
“Now, father, what is the use?” said Susan; “we all know you’ve got something or other you want to say, and why can’t you tell us what ’tis?”
“La, who cares what ’tis?” said Mrs. Jones; “if it was any thing worth telling, we shouldn’t have to wait for it, I dare say.”
Hereupon Mrs. Jones assumed an air of the most perfect indifference, as the surest way of conquering what she was pleased to call Mr. Jones’ obstinacy, which by the way was a very improper term to apply in the case; for it was purely the working of secretiveness without the least particle of obstinacy attached to it.
There was a pause for two or three minutes in the conversation, till Mr. Jones passed his cup to be filled a second time, when with a couple of preparatory hems he began to let out the secret.
“We are to have a new neighbor here in a few days,” said Mr. Jones, stopping short when he had uttered thus much, and sipping his tea and filling his mouth with food.
Mrs. Jones, who was perfect in her tactics, said not a word, but attended to the affairs of the table, as though she had not noticed what was said. The farmer’s secretiveness had at last worked itself out, and he began again.
“Squire Johnson’s wife’s sister is coming here in a few days, and is going to live with ’em.”
The news being thus fairly divulged, it left free scope for conversation.