The Tailor-Made Girl/A Conjugal Caucus
A CONJUGAL CAUCUS.
("From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose"—Hymn to the Night—Longfellow.)
Mrs. Thompson.—Are you asleep, Mr. T.?
Mr. Thompson (hesitatingly).—N-no.
Mrs. T.—Professor Catgut's bill for Arabella's first quarter—
Mr. T.—Humph! How much?
Mrs. T.—Why, my dear, you known his terms as well as I. Sixty dollars for twelve lessons.
Mr. T.—The dev—deuce, I mean! It's the first I heard of it.
Mrs. T.—Oh, you've forgotten. I told you all about it.
Mr. T.—You told me a while ago that you wanted Belle to brush up her music a little.
Mrs. T.—Yes; and you said very well.
Mr. T.—And on the strength of that you engage a professor at five dollars a lesson! Why, Maria, you'll drive me to the poor-house!
Mrs. T.—I've heard that before.
Mr. T.—And I never see Belle open the piano, either.
Mrs. T.—It isn't the piano; it's the violin.
Mr. T.—Violin!!!
Mrs. T. (calmly).—Yes; don't rouse the household. The piano is so very common.
Mr. T.—Indeed!
Mrs. T.—Yes; it is so much more effective to have some unique musical accomplishment—like playing the violin, zither, or banjo.
Mr. T.—Banjo! Good gracious! I suppose I ought to be grateful for the violin if it has saved me from the banjo.
Mrs. T.—I thought seriously of the banjo, but Arabella's arm is so lovely I decided in favor of the violin.
Mr. T.—Well, it strikes me Belle shows her arm enough every night, without going to an expense of sixty dollars to further display it.
Mrs. T.—Oh, you don't understand.
Mr. T.—No; I only pay.
Mrs. T.—And while we are on the subject of money—
Mr. T.—I don't know when we're off—
Mrs. T.—I really think you might increase Howard's allowance.
Mr. T.—Well, now, I like that! He has two thousand five hundred dollars a year, and lives at home.
Mrs. T.—I know; and it has done very well so far.
Mr. T.—Oh, has it?
Mrs. T.—But this summer he wants to play polo at Newport.
Mr. T.—Oh, does he?
Mrs. T.—Yes; he is a great expert now.
Mr. T.—Oh, is he?
Mrs. T.—And he wants his own ponies.
Mr. T.—Oh, does he?
Mrs. T.—I think (sobs) you are very unkind (sobs) to talk in that way (sobs). You have no interest (sobs) in the welfare and happiness (sobs) of your children.
Mr. T.—It looks as if I hadn't, indeed, to keep them in the luxury and idleness in which they are living.
Mrs. T. (still tearful).—Well, what can you expect?
Mr. T.—I wasn't brought up so. I worked hard for my daily bread.
Mrs. T.—You hadn't a rich father.
Mr. T. (with grim humor).—That's so! Perhaps it isn't their fault.
Mrs. T.—You see the children have got to live up to their station.
Mr. T.—Humph!
Mrs. T.—A sort of noblesse oblige.
Mr. T.—Stick to English, my dear, I catch your meaning quicker.
Mrs. T.—And Howard is sure to marry splendidly. He is so handsome.
Mr. T. (facetiously).—Yes—a chip of the old block.
Mrs. T.—There is no doubt that Clara Knickerbocker is greatly taken with him.
Mr. T.:—H-m, he might do worse.
Mrs. T.—Worse, indeed! Why, they're one of our oldest families, and rich into the bargain.
Mr. T.—Quite a rare combination.
Mrs. T.—Arabella's prospects are not quite so flattering. The dear girl is so fastidious.
Mr. T.—Belle is a little fool.
Mrs. T.—Why, how can you say so?
Mr. T.—Because it is so. Fastidious, indeed! Do you know the way she judges a young man?
Mrs. T.—I know that her standard is very high.
Mr. T.—Is it? Well, at the Lawrence dance the other night, young Brown took her down to supper—a nice likely young fellow—
Mrs. T.—But hardly Arabella's style.
Mr. T.—And when I asked her at breakfast, how she liked him, she said: "Pretty well, but O, papa, did you notice he put his napkin on both knees?"
Mrs. T.—She is so ultra-refined.
Mr. T.—Ultra fiddlesticks! Another young man wore ill-fitting gloves, a third let his hair grow in an ugly way at the back of his neck, and so on—
Mrs. T.—My dear, you don't understand girls.
Mr. T.—My dear, I don't want to.
Mrs. T.—You ought to be very proud of Arabella.
Mr. T.—I am—she has a lovely arm.
Mrs. T.—And to strive to establish her well in life—
Mr. T.—What shall I do? Advertise for a man who wears his napkin over one knee only, whose gloves are made to order, and—
Mrs. T.—You are a very provoking man. I wish you'd go to sleep.
Mr. T.—You won't let me.
Mrs. T.—I lie awake half the night, plotting and planning for my children, while you snore serenely on.
Mr. T.—A fair division of labor, Maria. As head of the house, to snore is my inalienable right. Good night, my dear!
