“Anything, child,” said her mother.
“‘There is a strong apprehension,’” she began, “‘of great distress being prevalent during the coming winter; it is to be feared——’”
“No, not that,” interrupted Mrs. Johnson, drawing her woollen shawl more closely round her, “read something else.”
“‘The Probability of a European War,’” continued her daughter, reading the headings.
“No, no,” said the lady, who was disinclined to grapple with large subjects, “read the local news. On the second page, my dear.”
Miss Emily ran her eye over the columns. “‘Banquet given to the Mayor. A successful entertainment was held in honour of our respected Mayor, Mr. William Smeebody, at the Crown and Gander, on Saturday the 4th instant. The table positively groaned under the triumphs of culinary skill which it displayed, and many brilliant and felicitous speeches followed the repast. But it should not be supposed that the pleasures of the table and the pleasures of the intellect were the only advantages offered to the company. Many of the fair sex were present, including his Worship’s lady, whose elegant accomplishments have made her so bright a star in our social firmament.’”
Mrs. Johnson breathed as hard as her cold would permit.
“Really!” she exclaimed, “there is no end to the odious publicity which is being brought into domestic life! I am sure if the newspapers had ventured to speak of me in such terms, Mr. Johnson would have disliked it intensely—elegant accomplishments, indeed!”
“‘Death of the Reverend Mr. Slaughter,’” continued Emily. “‘It is with profound grief that we have to record the tragic incident which took place yesterday. The Reverend Mr. Slaughter was seized with a fit while officiating last evening in Hebron Chapel and expired in the arms of the verger.’”