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Somewhere above, a rickety phonograph was at work; and somewhere below, a piano was being mauled; and somewhere else a ukelele was being thumped and a doleful singer was snarling "The Beach at Waikiki." This racket was their only epithalamium. It was more like the "chivaree" with which ironic crowds tormented bridal couples back in Nimrim, Mo.
The Nimrim people spoke to the parents with reverence, as if their son had been elected President which would not have been, after all, so wonderful as their daughter's being a screen queen. There is no end to the astonishments of our every-day life.
Kedzie quivered as if she had been lashed. She struck back with her best Nimrim repartee, "You're a nice one to call me a cow, you big, fat, old lummox!" Miss Silsby fairly mooed at this. "You you insolent little rat, you! You oh, you you! I'll never let you dance for me again never!" "I'd better resign, then, I suppose," said Kedzie. "Resign? How dare you resign! You're fired!
My heart shall cry out for Moab; his fugitives shall flee unto Zoar, an heifer of three years old: for by the mounting up of Luhith with weeping shall they go it up; for in the way of Horonaim they shall raise up a cry of destruction. For the waters of Nimrim shall be desolate: for the hay is withered away, the grass faileth, there is no green thing.
Connery did not mean this as in any sense a reflection on Mrs. Thropp's marital integrity, but she took it so. Now, in Nimrim the question of fidelity is not dealt with lightly, at least in repartee. Mrs.
Some man in Nimrim, Mo., would have wed the little stay-at-home. Kedzie, the pretty fool, apparently fancied that she would have been happy if Gilfoyle had been a handsomer sleeper, and the apartment a handsomer apartment, and the bank-account an inexhaustible fountain of gold. But would she have been?
Well, I warned you before that if you became Dyckman's wife you would find his world vastly different from the ballroom and drawing-room stuff you pull off in the studio strangely and mysteriously different." He frightened her. She was not sure of herself. She could not forget Nimrim, Missouri, and her arrival at the edge of society via the Bronx, the candy-shop, and the professional camera.
"They've got us ditched, honey, for a while, but we'll get righted soon and then life will be as smooth as smooth." She tried to smile for his sake, but she had finished with hope. While Jim and Charity sat by the roadside the Marchioness of Strathdene, nee Kedzie Thropp, of Nimrim, sat on a fine cushion and salted with her tears the toasted English crumpet she was having with her tea.
Kedzie had known in Nimrim what church socials were, for they were about the height of Nimrim excitement. But young Mr. Gilfoyle was not a church socialist. He detested all creeds and all churches and said things about them and about religion that at first made Kedzie look up at the ceiling and dodge. But no brimstone ever broke through the plaster and she grew used to his diatribes.
She broke right into her mother's description of a harrowing lumbago she had suffered from: it was that bad she couldn't neither lay nor set that is to say, comfortable. Kedzie's own new-fangled pronunciations and phrases fell from her mind, and she spoke in purest Nimrim: "Listen, momma and poppa. I'm in a peck of trouble, and maybe you can help me out." "Is it money?" Adna wailed, sepulchrally.
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