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Updated: May 25, 2025
"Wisha, the poor thing is mad at me yet, I know that from the sounds of her iron; 't was a shame for her to go picking a quarrel with the likes of me," and Mrs. Dunleavy sighed heavily and stepped down into her flower-plot to pull the distressed foxgloves back into their places inside the fence.
"Don't you think the Atlantic will be crossed soon?" asked the keen-looking man with the tortoise-shell spectacles. Phil Dunleavy broke in with an air of amused sophistication: "I think the parlor aviator was right. Really, you know, aviation is too difficult a subject for the layman to make any predictions about either what it can or can't do."
She sat bolt-upright on the front of the most impersonal French-gilt chair in the drawing-room and asserted that Phil Dunleavy, with his safe ancestry of two generations of wholesalers and strong probabilities about the respectability of still another generation, was her ideal of a Christian gentleman.
"Sure, it always takes two to make a quarrel, and but one to end it; that's what me mother always told me, that never gave anny one a cross word in her life." "'T is a beautiful melon," repeated Mrs. Dunleavy for the seventh time. "Sure, I 'll plant a few seed myself next year; me pumpkins is no good afther all me foolish pride wit' 'em.
In the West, one would speak of 'seeing the girls home. How would one say that gracefully in New-Yorkese, so that I might have the chance to beguile Miss Olive Dunleavy and Miss Ruth Winslow into letting me see them home?" "Really, we're not a bit afraid to go home alone." "I won't tease, but May I come to your house for tea, some time?" She hesitated. It came out with a rush. "Yes. Do come up.
Just now she sat in a pre-historic S chair, near the center of the drawing-room, pumping out of Phil Dunleavy most of the facts about his chiefs' private lives. Aunt Emma had the soul of a six-foot dowager duchess, and should have had an eagle nose and a white pompadour.
"I don't know but I 'll slip on me bonnet in the afthernoon and go find her," said Biddy Connelly, with hospitable warmth. "I 've seen her before, perhaps 't was long whiles ago at home." "Indeed I thought of it myself," said Mrs. Dunleavy, with approval. "We 'd best wait, perhaps, till she 'd be coming back; there's no train now till three o'clock.
"There was Bogans living down by the brick mill when I first come here, neighbors to Flaherty's folks," continued Mrs. Dunleavy, more and more aggrieved. "Biddy Con'ly ought to know the Flahertys, they being her cousins.
The goat lifted his head, and gazed at his enemy with mild interest; he was pasturing now by the roadside, and the foxgloves had proved bitter in his mouth. Mrs. Dunleavy stood looking at him over the fence, glad of even a goat's company. "Go 'long there; see that fine little tuft ahead now," she advised him, forgetful of his depredations. "Oh, to think I 've nobody to spake to, the day!"
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