A Counterfeit Presentment; and, The Parlour Car

by William Dean Howells

Constance, fighting her way through the smoke to the General's chair.—"Why, papa, how you have been smoking!"

General Wyatt, with a queer look.—"Yes, I find it rests me after a bad night. I didn't sleep well."

Constance.—"Oh, poor papa! How do you do, Mr. Bartlett?" She gives him her hand for good-morning.

Bartlett.—"Oh, quite well, quite well now, thank you. I—I—had been a little off my—diet."

Constance.—"Oh!"

Bartlett.—"Yes. But I've gone back now, and I'm all right again." He retires to the easel, and mechanically resumes his pipe, but takes it from his mouth again, and after an impatient glance at it, throws it out of the window. "When you're ready, Miss Wyatt, we can begin any time. There's no hurry, though."

Constance.—"I'm ready now. Is everything in reach, papa?"

General Wyatt.—"Yes, my dear. I'm so perfectly comfortable that one touch more would make me miserable."

Constance.—"Can't I do something for you?"

General Wyatt.—"Not a thing. I'm a prodigy of content."