"The rich," pursued the infatuated and unconscious Donne, "are a parcel of misers, never living as persons with their incomes ought to live. You scarsley"--(you must excuse Mr. Donne's pronunciation, reader; it was very choice; he considered it genteel, and prided himself on his southern accent; northern ears received with singular sensations his utterance of certain words)--"you scarsley ever see a fam'ly where a propa carriage or a reg'la butla is kep; and as to the poor--just look at them when they come crowding about the church doors on the occasion of a marriage or a funeral, clattering in clogs; the men in their shirt-sleeves and wool-combers' aprons, the women in mob-caps and bed-gowns. They positively deserve that one should turn a mad cow in amongst them to rout their rabble-ranks. He-he! what fun it would be!"
"There! you have reached the climax," said Shirley quietly. "You have reached the climax," she repeated, turning her glowing glance towards him. "You cannot go beyond it, and," she added with emphasis, "you _shall_ not, in my house."
Up she rose--nobody could control her now, for she was exasperated--straight she walked to her garden gates, wide she flung them open.

"The rich," pursued the unconscious Donne, "are a parcel of misers. You scarcely ever see a family where a proper carriage or butler is kept; and as to the poor - clattering in clogs; the men in their shirt-sleeves, the women in mob-caps and bed-gowns. They positively deserve that one should turn a mad cow amongst them to rout them. He-he! what fun it would be!"
"There! you have reached the climax," said Shirley quietly, turning her glowing glance towards him. "You cannot go beyond it, and," she added with emphasis, "you shall not, in my house."
Up she rose, walked to her garden gates, and flung them wide open.
