My wife declares that
he has a spiritual face, and that he reminds her of me at the same age,
which I regard as an ingenious attempt to prepossess me in his favor.
She has informed me also that Josie is over head and ears in love with
him and he with Josie, a predicament on his part which I am not
surprised at; and I suppose that I am bound to admit that my daughter
is justified in her infatuation for him, if he resembles me at thirty.
Plainly, I have become an old cynic by reason of the loss of my dear
Josie. I realize that I have been like a bear with a sore head ever
since the ceremony. As for Josephine, she has been mooning about the
house all day in a state of chronic tearfulness. The responsibility of
the bride's appearance and the wedding collation kept her nerved until
everything was over. Last evening she collapsed and fell asleep in my
arms, sobbing like a child.
His name is James Perkins. I have been doing my best for several
months to call him "Jim," as everybody else does, instead of "James,"
or "Perkins," and yesterday I succeeded twice in doing so. I had had
three glasses of champagne. He is an architect, and I understand from
Josie that he has already made his mark in the erection of a church,
two school-houses, and a town-hall in the suburbs, which I have
promised her to go and see.
Pages:
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145