_He_. How you do jump at lame and impotent conclusions! Who said we
could not go? I am sure I did not.

_She_. John Woodstock, if you don't stop this, and tell me what you
mean, I will never make you another shirt!

_He_. Small loss! Of all mean things, a homemade shirt is the meanest;
and why a man of my native nobility of character should be condemned
to wear them--

_Their aunt_ (distressedly). Children! children!--

_He_ (soothingly). Never mind, aunty: she did not mean it. She would
not put it out of her power to say that she had made every shirt I
ever wore for all the mines of Golconda.

_She_. What a small potato you are!

_He_. Now, my dear Marjory, how often must I tell you that calling a
fellow names is not arguing? If you could keep from being abusive for
five minutes, you might hear of something to your advantage. I have
a little money, for a wonder, but it is like the turkey--too much for
one, and not enough for two. You cannot go by yourself, for it is an
evening affair; but if you were not so frightfully vain about your
personal appearance, I think we could manage it. I heard you say
yesterday that you had the money for a new pair of gloves: if you will
sacrifice them, we can go, and in two weeks I can give you the gloves
besides. I can't before, for my princely income is at present heavily
mortgaged. Can you furbish up your old ones till then, and thereby
prove yourself sensible for once?