“Arti,” called one sister to another in the broad hall one morning, mock amazement in her distended eyes, “something is goin’ to took place!”
“Comm-e-n-t?” in long-drawn perplexity.
“Papa is goin’ to town!”
The news passed up-stairs.
“Inno,”—one to another meeting in a doorway,—“something is goin’ to took place!”
“Qu’est-ce-que c’est?” in vain attempt at gruffness.
“Papa is goin’ to town!”
The unusual tidings were true. It was afternoon of the same day that the colonel tossed his horse’s bridle to his groom, and stepped up to old Charlie, who was sitting on his bench under a china-tree, his head, as was his fashion, bound in a madras handkerchief. The “old man” was plainly under the effect of spirits, and smiled a deferential salutation, without trusting himself to his feet.
“Eh, well, Charlie,”—the colonel raised his voice to suit his kinsman’s deafness,—“how is those times with my friend Charlie?”
“Eh?” said Charlie, distractedly.