I couldn't
help wishing that the family had been there to hear; but I decided
that I would certainly tell them of it,--you see I don't often get
such a compliment.
I would like to have made a polite speech to him, but what was there to
say?--it still remained that he _hadn't_ taken good care of me. And
while this thought was going through my brain, I heard myself say, "Did
you tell your mother what I said to you?"
Now I had no more idea of asking Hilliard that--though I did want to
know--than I had of flying; my mouth opened, and the words just came out
without the least volition on my part,--in fact, I was perfectly
astonished to hear them. More than once this has happened at home; Phil
teases me about it, and Fee calls me Mrs. Malaprop, because--that's the
trouble--these speeches are almost always just the things I shouldn't
have said. I'm sure I don't know what I am to do to prevent it.
My face actually burnt,--it must have been as red as a beet. "I didn't
mean to ask you that," I blurted out. While I was speaking, Hilliard was
saying, "Why, certainly not; I simply mentioned that you had a
headache," in such a surprised voice that I felt more uncomfortable than
ever: but wasn't it nice of him not to tell?
I just rushed into talk about the scenery as fast as I could go.
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