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Updated: June 14, 2025
He and the colonel drew their heads together. From time to time the count shrugged, or the colonel shook his head. Again and again the Russian dipped the end of his cigar into his coffee-cup, which he frequently replenished. But for Mr. Robert the gold had turned to gilt, the gorgeous to the gaudy. She was gone.
"Have you heard the news, sir?" he gasped. "At the Cunningham's sir!" "Burglary!" cried the Colonel, with his coffee-cup in mid-air. "Murder!" The Colonel whistled. "By Jove!" said he. "Who's killed, then? The J.P. or his son?" "Neither, sir. It was William the coachman. Shot through the heart, sir, and never spoke again." "Who shot him, then?" "The burglar, sir.
Here Merrihew saw a tavern such as he had often conjured up while reading his Dumas; sausages and hams and bacons and garlic and cheeses and dried vegetables hanging from the ceiling, abrupt passages, rough tables and common chairs and strange dishes; oil, oil, oil, even on the top of his coffee-cup, and magnums of red and white Chianti.
She had an instant conviction that it was all over with poor Levi. "My poor lamb!" cried the Rebbitzin, the coffee-cup dropping from her nerveless hand. "Simcha," said Reb Shemuel sternly, "calm thyself; we have no son to lose. The Holy One blessed be He! hath taken him from us. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh. Blessed be the name of the Lord." Hannah rose. Her face was white and resolute.
This he began slowly to eat, drinking at times from the foaming glass of buttermilk at the side of his plate, from which the coffee-cup had been removed. When he had finished the half roll he again spoke. "I think, my dear young lady, that your aunt is desirous of having your marriage set aside." "How can she do that?" exclaimed the girl, her face flushing. "Has she been talking to you about it?"
The gentlemen arrive in course of time, which they must do, linger as long as they will over the delights of port and politics, and then the various schemes and thoughts engendered at the dinner-table are brought to light over the coffee-cup. Miss Gwynne patronisingly singles out Rowland Prothero, who, reserved by nature, feels doubly so amongst the ill-assorted elements around him.
It was pretty to see her tripping across the room with his coffee-cup, or peeling walnuts for him after dinner with her white plump little fingers. Mrs. Irons, the housekeeper, naturally detested Mrs. Mackenzie, and was jealous of her: though the latter did everything to soothe and coax the governess of the two gentlemen's establishment.
But nothing happens, my dear Major; I am the slave of remorse take care of the coffee-cup: you are so very awkward my darling Edith is an altered being; and I really don't see what is to be done, or what good creature I can advise with.
Aunt Dahlia uttered a startled hunting cry. Uncle Tom, who probably imagined from the noise that this was civilization crashing at last, helped things along by breaking a coffee-cup. Tuppy said he was sorry. Aunt Dahlia, with a deathbed groan, said it didn't matter.
Hour after hour she had been watching the water, the lonely, useless stone towers, and the convulsed mass of iron wreckage over which the angry river continually spat up its yellow foam. "Those poor women out there, do they blame him very much?" she asked, as she handed the coffee-cup back to Horton. "Nobody blames him, Mrs. Alexander.
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