“Do turn the lamp down, Martin,” said Isabel, as the bright glare of the solar globe burst upon us, “I love a mellow light in summer. Do not you, Ellen?”
“Yes,” replied I, “one can think so pleasantly in the twilight, or the moonlight. If you sit in silence where your face is visible, your nice air-castles are all at once tumbled down by some one exclaiming ‘Why what is the matter? Yon look so grave.’ And then you start and look foolish, answering stupidly, or begin an account of your thoughts, which cannot possibly interest any one but your own self.”
“Tene; but I love to trace a chain of thought—threading a mental way through all its intricacies, to find how very, very small the ‘baseless fabric’ from whence we started. It is like watching the circle upon circle that sweeps out from around the troubled water of a small stream. A commotion that a single drop may occasion. No very new comparison, to be sure, but one may be excused a plagiarism when one has no genius. Josy, give us an idea or two to start on, you who think so prettily.”
“A silver penny for Edwin’s thoughts!” said Josy, laying her little hand on his and looking up into his face. “Now tell us where you have been wandering all this while, grave man? Do you too weave romances at this witching hour, and for whom? Your day is gone, Sir Benedict, and I am here to remind you of it.”
“Who can say that I am free?” exclaimed he. “Forced to answer this syren’s questions, I must plead guilty to wondering if the man in the moon had a family, and, if so, what can be the nature of the little moonses.”
“O lame and impotent conclusion,” cried Josy, laughing merrily. “Oh, Edwin! I did expect something poetical at least, after your silent meditation.”
“Que voulez-vous?” said he, with a shrug. “I was commanded to open my heart to the present company, and dared not disobey. If my astronomical observations are not acceptable to the learned triumvirate, I throw myself upon their mercy. What is it, Martin?”
“There is a boy here, sir, who wishes to know if you will let Colonel Robinson have your rockaway to-morrow. He has broken down on his way out, and says he knows you have your buggy for your own use. The rockaway will be returned in the evening.”
“The deuce it will!” said Mr. Bettyman, impatiently rising from his chair and following the servant out into the yard. “I do not like to lend my vehicles, I must confess, for they are never returned in order.”
And neither does any one else, I believe, gentlemen particularly. I have known ladies, however, whose carriage, driver and horses could wait attendance a whole day on a fashionable acquaintance, when the convenience would be denied “poor relations.” But this means nothing, dear reader; of course you are not one of my acquaintances, I have very few I assure you; I care most for old friends, and hope you will pardon my wandering from the subject.