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Updated: July 24, 2025
Langshaw put his hand into his pocket. "No, I can't give you the dollar this minute, little girl; father has only a ten-dollar bill. I'll get it changed right after dinner. Isn't dinner 'most ready, Clytie?" "We'll go down just as soon as I get Baby in bed," said the mother peacefully. "I don't see why George isn't here. Goodness!
"I wish you'd tend to these things at the time, Clytie, or let me know about them." He took the money when George returned. "Here's your dollar now, Mary don't lose it again! and your five, George. You might as well take another dollar yourself, Clytie, for extras." He pocketed the remainder of the change carelessly.
Later, when the game of clearing up was over and the nickel clutched in Baby's fat palm, he turned to his wife with a half-frown: "Don't you think you are making the children rather mercenary, Clytie? They seem to want to be paid for everything they do. I'm just about drained out of change!" "Oh, at Christmas!" said the wife expressively.
He looked about at her and then out upon the clearing floor. "Well, well," said Mrs. Whyland once again. The wide, empty space before them was lending itself to a second grand entree, by a party of one. Clytie Summers had finally arrived.
Morpher, Clytie, or any of his scholars. His reticence was partly the result of a constitutional indisposition to fuss, partly a desire to be spared the questions and surmises of vulgar curiosity, and partly that he never really believed he was going to do anything before it was done. He did not like to think of Mliss.
"Let's have some music, before our breasts get too savage," said the girl, starting up. Bond followed with the rest. "I'll stick to my regular field," he said to Clytie, as he thrust his crumpled-up manuscript into his pocket. "Griffins, gorgons, hydras, chimeras dire, but no more cows. I was never meant for a veritist." "Samson is pulling down the temple," observed Clytie.
Then their hands fell apart and with little awkward laughs they turned to Clytie. They were presently at table, Clytie in a trance of ecstatic watchfulness for emptied plates, broken only by reachings and urgings of this or that esteemed fleshpot. Under the ready talk that flowed, Nancy had opportunity to observe the returned one. And now his strangeness vaguely hurt her.
"Marston Brent," was the answer. "It seems the Clytie made a very quick trip, and came into port yesterday; so of course her owner has come at once to report his safe arrival at head-quarters." Mrs.
"Ranz des Vaches," said Medora: "a sort of thing the Alpine what's-his-name sings." "It's for atmosphere," said Bond, on the defensive. "Let the pasture furnish its own atmosphere. And you had something about a certain breed of cattle near Rome Rome, was it?" "Roman Campagna. Travel reminiscences." "Travel is a mistake," declared Abner. "So it is," broke in Clytie.
Now you go right to sleep this minute, while I watch you. Look how fine and good Allan is." She spoke low, not to awaken the one virtuous sleeper, who seemed thereupon to breathe with a more swelling and obtrusive rectitude. "Clytie now ain't there any Santa Claus?" "Now what a sinful question that is!" "But is there?" "Don't he bring you things?" "Oh, there ain't any!"
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