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Updated: May 4, 2025
The old man looked up at her across his coffee-cup through his frowning brows. "No." Mrs. Mandel dropped her eyes, and the spoon shook in her hand. "Then what's the reason he don't come here any more?" demanded the girl; and her glance darted from her father to Mrs. Mandel. "Oh, it's you, is it? I'd like to know who told you to meddle in other people's business?" "I did," said Dryfoos, savagely.
When Mela reported this result, Christine accused her of having mismanaged the whole business; she quarrelled with her, and they called each other names. Christine declared that she would not stay in Saratoga, and that if Mrs. Mandel did not go back to New York with her she should go alone. They returned the first week in September; but by that time Beaton had gone to see his people in Syracuse.
That was Christine. Well, I saw what they wanted. They all saw it nobody is a fool in all directions, and the Dryfooses are in their right senses a good deal of the time. Well, to cut a long story short, I got Mrs. Mandel to take 'em in hand the old lady as well as the girls.
"Have you been to the fall exhibition?" she asked Christine; and the girl drew herself up out of the abstraction she seemed sunk in. "The exhibition?" She looked at Mrs. Mandel. "The pictures of the Academy, you know," Mrs. Mandel explained. "Where I wanted you to go the day you had your dress tried on." "No; we haven't been yet. Is it good?" She had turned to Mrs. March again.
"I believe you are all great Wagnerites in Boston?" "I'm a very bad Bostonian, Mrs. Mandel. I suspect myself of preferring Verdi," March answered. Miss Dryfoos looked down at her fan again, and said, "I like 'Trovatore' the best." "It's an opera I never get tired of," said March, and Mrs. March and Mrs: Mandel exchanged a smile of compassion for his simplicity.
"Pshaw!" said Mela, one morning when she came to breakfast, "I reckon if we was to send up an old card of Mr. Beaton's she'd rattle down-stairs fast enough. If she's sick, she's love-sick. It makes me sick to see her." Mela was talking to Mrs. Mandel, but her father looked up from his plate and listened.
I reckon he don't try it on much with father." "Your fawther ain't ever been a perfessor," her mother interposed; "but he's always been a good church-goin' man." "Not since we come to New York," retorted the girl. "He's been all broke up since he come to New York," said the old woman, with an aggrieved look. Mrs. Mandel attempted a diversion.
I pretended suddenly to remember, and said: "Oh! that's true! When I knew you, you were engaged to Mademoiselle de Mandel, I believe." "Yes, monsieur, your memory is excellent." I grew very bold and added: "I also seem to remember hearing that Mademoiselle de Mandel married Monsieur Monsieur " He calmly mentioned the name: "Monsieur de Fleurel." "Yes, that's it!
Miss Mela looked round for applause of her sally, but March was saying to his wife: "It's a Pennsylvania German sect, I believe something like the Quakers. I used to see them when I was a boy." "Aren't they something like the Mennists?" asked Mrs. Mandel. "They're good people," said the old woman, "and the world 'd be a heap better off if there was more like 'em."
Mandel pronounced the spelling bad, and the taste worse; she forbade them to send the letter; and Mela failed to get round her, though she threatened, if Mrs. Mandel would not tell her how to spell the wrong words, that she would send the letter as it was; then Mrs. Mandel said that if Mr. Beaton appeared in Saratoga she would instantly take them both home.
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