“Slang? I deny it,” returned Wentworth, impudently. “Now what did I say?”
“You said Cellini was a brick,” said Emily, laughing.
“So he was,” retorted Wentworth, gaily. “A regular brick. Call brick slang? Why, it’s one of the finest epithets in the English language! What other term could you use that is half as expressive? And what was language made for but to express our ideas with adequacy, propriety, and elegance? Oh, by Jupiter! but I’ll stick to brick like mortar!”
“So you have Johnny,” observed Harrington, laughing.
“Yes. He’s to start from the stable at about half-past twelve and drive over to Q street to bring home a small fishing-party,” replied Wentworth, with a satirical air. “A party that goes down the harbor to catch black-fish.”
“I hope the party won’t catch a tartar,” said Emily, jestingly.
“Nor a cold,” added Muriel. “But there’s the tea-bell.”
They arose and went down to the tea-room, talking and laughing gaily.
After tea they returned for a short time to the library. Presently, Mrs. Eastman, feeling unwell, left them, and retired for the night, attended by Muriel, who, filled with compassion for her poor mother, went with her to her chamber and stayed till she was asleep.
She was gone about half an hour, and returning to the lighted library at the expiration of that time, found the three chatting together.