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Description
Mr. Tillinghast, setting his coffee mug on the table with a startled clatter, and, he said, in a gravelly tone which lingered between congenial and aghast, that my repeated references to the Amish country life had gravely concerned him.

"You must understand, my concerns are for your well-being first. I am afraid we'll wake one morning and discover your sheets empty and your wardrobe evacuated."

His accusation stunned me; I knew my relations had been anything but involved these past few weeks yet I had not realized my general demeanor may have given the impression to both he and Mr. Wharton that I had seriously considered drastic changes to my economic stature. But while I had only expressed a casual interest in that rustic life, I also understood Mr. Tillinghast was not fully aware the full scope of my interests (nor had I given him the privilege of knowing); indeed, I held the esteemed Mr. Tillinghast in the palm of my hand.

"And what if I did? Would you follow, sir?"

He paled.

"You don't mean to suggest - "

"I do! I've grown tired of this life; this, oh, what do you call it?" Here I sneered a little; "The life of the mind!" He made to interject something ponderous but I would not allow any headway.

"All you and Mr. Wharton do to me each evening is spout off your Spinoza as though he means something and you spout him at me." I gently exaggerated my sentiments but there were evenings when I felt as though I were nothing more than a dart-board and he meant to score a philosophical bulls-eye.

If Mr. Tillinghast wore glasses, he would have set them on the table so sternly I fear they would bend out of alignment.

"Do you have any idea what that life is like? You'll spend your mornings burning eggs and bacon for unshaven men and, afterwards, tending children as they skin squirrels! I fear you may even have to knit quilts! We have provided a better life for you here!" You do not know how his words pained me; one does not knit a quilt.

I looked down at the hem of my skirts; a slender, pearled slipper peered shyly out at the world beyond. In that moment, I summoned every petulant ounce of piety (though I readily admit I hadn't enough charity to bake a pound-cake) and I rearranged the garments so that shy, slender slipper would not be witness to what came next.

"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might. Ecclesiastes. Chapter nine, verse ten."

If I had not known better, I would have believed the esteemed Mr. Tillinghast harbored feline ancestors because he leapt from the table with such startling grace and speed that not a single drop of his slightly stale coffee spilled from the mug.

"WHARTON. It's worse than we thought! She's quoting Scripture!"

Description
Mr. Tillinghast, setting his coffee mug on the table with a startled clatter, and, he said, in a gravelly tone which lingered between congenial and aghast, that my repeated references to the Amish country life had gravely concerned him.

"You must understand, my concerns are for your well-being first. I am afraid we'll wake one morning and discover your sheets empty and your wardrobe evacuated."

His accusation stunned me; I knew my relations had been anything but involved these past few weeks yet I had not realized my general demeanor may have given the impression to both he and Mr. Wharton that I had seriously considered drastic changes to my economic stature. But while I had only expressed a casual interest in that rustic life, I also understood Mr. Tillinghast was not fully aware the full scope of my interests (nor had I given him the privilege of knowing); indeed, I held the esteemed Mr. Tillinghast in the palm of my hand.

"And what if I did? Would you follow, sir?"

He paled.

"You don't mean to suggest - "

"I do! I've grown tired of this life; this, oh, what do you call it?" Here I sneered a little; "The life of the mind!" He made to interject something ponderous but I would not allow any headway.

"All you and Mr. Wharton do to me each evening is spout off your Spinoza as though he means something and you spout him at me." I gently exaggerated my sentiments but there were evenings when I felt as though I were nothing more than a dart-board and he meant to score a philosophical bulls-eye.

If Mr. Tillinghast wore glasses, he would have set them on the table so sternly I fear they would bend out of alignment.

"Do you have any idea what that life is like? You'll spend your mornings burning eggs and bacon for unshaven men and, afterwards, tending children as they skin squirrels! I fear you may even have to knit quilts! We have provided a better life for you here!" You do not know how his words pained me; one does not knit a quilt.

I looked down at the hem of my skirts; a slender, pearled slipper peered shyly out at the world beyond. In that moment, I summoned every petulant ounce of piety (though I readily admit I hadn't enough charity to bake a pound-cake) and I rearranged the garments so that shy, slender slipper would not be witness to what came next.

"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might. Ecclesiastes. Chapter nine, verse ten."

If I had not known better, I would have believed the esteemed Mr. Tillinghast harbored feline ancestors because he leapt from the table with such startling grace and speed that not a single drop of his slightly stale coffee spilled from the mug.

"WHARTON. It's worse than we thought! She's quoting Scripture!"