But then, as Aunt
Hester said, they didn't see any poetry nowadays, all the poems were
'little light things.'
There was nobody who could write a poem like 'Paradise Lost,' or
'Childe Harold'; either of which made you feel that you really had read
something. Still, it was nice for Francie to have something to occupy
her; while other girls were spending money shopping she was making it!
And both Aunt Hester and Aunt Juley were always ready to listen to the
latest story of how Francie had got her price increased.
They listened now, together with Swithin, who sat pretending not to, for
these young people talked so fast and mumbled so, he never could catch
what they said.
"And I can't think," said Mrs. Septimus, "how you do it. I should never
have the audacity!"
Francie smiled lightly. "I'd much rather deal with a man than a woman.
Women are so sharp!"
"My dear," cried Mrs. Small, "I'm sure we're not."
Euphemia went off into her silent laugh, and, ending with the squeak,
said, as though being strangled: "Oh, you'll kill me some day, auntie."
Swithin saw no necessity to laugh; he detested people laughing when he
himself perceived no joke. Indeed, he detested Euphemia altogether, to
whom he always alluded as 'Nick's daughter, what's she called--the pale
one?' He had just missed being her god-father--indeed, would have been,
had he not taken a firm stand against her outlandish name.
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