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It was understood that the gentlemen might smoke, though the formality of asking permission of the ladies, and being urged by them, always took place. Mr. Denner's weekly remark to the Misses Woodhouse in this connection, as he stood ready to strike a match on the hearth of the big fireplace, was well known.
We have never touched on such things, I tell you, old friends as we are; and it is awkward, you understand." They were very quiet for the rest of the long drive. They stopped a moment at Mr. Denner's gate; the house was dark, except for a dim light in the library and another in the kitchen, where Mary sat poring over her usual volume.
Mr. Denner coughed nervously. "It is not of the slightest consequence," he explained, "not the slightest. I spoke thoughtlessly; ah unadvisedly." "Of course, of course; I understand," cried the rector, and forbore to add a good-natured jest at Mr. Denner's embarrassment, which was really painful. But when he was well out of hearing, he could not restrain a series of chuckles.
This grandeur, this general effect, is indeed always combined with the details, or what our theoretical reasoner would designate as littleness in nature: and so it ought to be in art, as far as art can follow nature with prudence and profit. What is the fault of Denner's style?
Denner's grave, over which the kindly grass had not yet thrown its veil; and Miss Deborah stopped to put a single rose upon the sunken, mossy spot where, forty years before, the little sister had been laid to rest. Both the little ladies frankly wiped their eyes, though with no thought except for the old friendship which had ended here.
Denner said, "I am sure I am glad to hear you say that, very glad. We ah should miss them, I assure you." Gifford reached out and plucked up the violets by the roots, to save them from Mr. Denner's drab gaiter, and planted them deep in a crevice of the steps.
Denner's big chair, though Gifford was standing and looking about in an interested way; "must have been a gloomy house to live in. Wonder he never got married. Perhaps he couldn't find anybody willing to stay in such a hole, it's so confoundedly damp. He died in here, didn't he?" This was in a lower voice. "Yes," Gifford answered.
Denner's dying eyes, tried to approach the subject delicately, but was met with such amazing certainty on the part of Miss Deborah, and a covert allusion to the value of the miniature, that she was silenced. And again, on Dr.
He made his will fifteen years ago, and left all he had to Sarah Denner's boy. I don't see what he has to do." "But, uncle," Helen said, "mightn't he have some friends or relatives to whom he would want to send a message, or perhaps see? People you never heard of?" "Oh, no, no," responded Dr. Howe. "I've known William Denner, man and boy, these sixty years.
But the tear-stains told more than the words, at least of Mr. Denner's heart, if not of pretty sixteen-year-old Gertrude's. These were among the first to be burned; yet how Mr. Denner had loved them, even though Gertrude, running away with her dancing-master, and becoming the mother of a family of boys, had been dead these twenty years, and the proverb had pointed to Miss Deborah Woodhouse!
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