fellow-directors annually to dine off one of them as a modest notice
that he was on friendly terms with his aristocratic New York cousin. But
in all these twenty years turkeys had been the only medium of
intercourse between them. David Price, on the few occasions when he had
visited New York, had not found it convenient to call. Once he had
walked by on the other side of Fifth avenue and looked at the house, but
shyness and the thought that he had no evening clothes in his valise had
restrained him from ringing the doorbell.

"You do your cousin Morton great injustice--great injustice, Florence,"
he answered. "He never forgets to send the turkeys, and as to the rest
of your speech, I have only to say that it is very disrespectful and
very foolish. The next time I go to New York I will take you to call on
your cousins."

"And what would I say to them? No thank you, poppa." The young woman
shook her head decisively, and then she added, "I'm not going to call on
them, until I'm fit to. There!"

The ambiguity of this remark gave Mr. Price the opportunity to say that,
in view of her immediate shortcomings, it was a wise conclusion, but he
knew what she really meant and was distressed. His feeling toward his
cousin, though mildly envious, did not extend to self-depreciation, nor
had it served to undermine his faith in the innate dignity and worth of
New Jersey family life. He could not only with a straight face, but with
a kindling eye inveigh against the perils of New York fashionable life,
and express gratification that no son or daughter of his had wandered so
far from the fold. It distressed him to think that Florence should be
casting sheep's eyes at the flesh-pots of Gotham, and so failing to
appreciate the blessings and safety of a quiet American home.