I glance up to the windows in which the flowers were blooming. His
eyes follow mine.
'Which do you think the best, Chris; those on the first or those on
the third floor?'
'On the first floor certainly, and I am surprised at it. I thought no
one could beat you. Mother was never so successful as you were. Your
flowers were always the finest.'
He rubs his hand, and says,
'Well, we shall see, we shall see.' And then, more earnestly, 'I am
glad you have asked me, Chris; I was wishing for it. Good-night now;
we'll talk of it by and by.'
As he seems evidently wishful to get rid of us, and as my mother seems
no less anxious to go, I take my leave. On our way home we pass a
theatre, and my mother expresses a wish to enter; we go into the pit,
and witness a French comic opera done into English. The performance is
a good one, but is spoilt by the unnecessary introduction of some
foreign dancers, whose coarse vulgarity and outrageous disregard for
decency shock my mother. It is seldom that my mother goes to a
theatre, and she says, as we come out,
'If that is to become the fashion in theatres, I am more than glad
that Jessie is not going on the stage.'
'Then she is not going?' I ask eagerly.
'Well, my dear,' replies my mother, with sudden reserve, 'it almost
looks as if she had given up the idea.'
At home I find a letter on the table. I open it and read:
'Miss West presents her compliments to Mr. Christopher Carey, and will
be happy to see him and his mother at nine o'clock to-morrow evening,
at the Old House at Home.'
'Why, mother,' I say, 'this is exactly like the note Josey sent to me
when I first went to her place. I suppose she wants to have an evening
in the old house before her brother Sheridan takes possession. I
wonder if the kitchen is the same. I shall never forget my feelings
when I saw it for the first time. You must come, mother, is a
wonderful sight.'
My mother smiles an assent.
'I am glad you asked your uncle to come and live with us,' she says,
as she wishes me good-night.
CHAPTER L.
JOSEY WEST DISTURBS US IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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