"All right, then; I'll fix it myself.

What was it you were gracious enough to inquire of me ?" "How the people are at Ashuelyn ?" repeated Neville.
"How they are?
How the deuce do I know?
Your mother embroiders and reads _The Atlantic Monthly_; your father tucks his hands behind him and critically inspects the landscape; and when he doesn't do that he reads Herbert Spencer.

Your efficient sister nourishes her progeny and does all things thoroughly and well; Gordon digs up some trees and plants others and squirts un-fragrant mixtures over the shrubbery, and sits on fences talking to various Rubes.

Stephanie floats about like a well-fed angel, with a fox-terrier, and makes a monkey of me at tennis whenever I'm lunatic enough to let her, and generally dispenses sweetness, wholesomeness, and light upon a worthy household.

I wouldn't mind marrying that girl," he added casually.