Some were good-humored
enough and took the hint of a lighted match at once. Others were as
vicious as they could be,--would not light on any terms, any more than
if they were filled with water, or lighted and smoked one side of the
chimney, or sputtered a few sparks and sulked themselves out, or kept
up a faint show of burning, so that their ground glasses looked as
feebly phosphorescent as so many invalid fireflies. With much coaxing
and screwing and pricking, a tolerable illumination was at last
achieved. At eight there was a grand rustling of silks, and Mrs. and
Miss Sprowle descended from their respective bowers or boudoirs. Of
course they were pretty well tired by this time, and very glad to sit
down,--having the prospect before them of being obliged to stand for
hours. The Colonel walked about the parlor, inspecting his regiment of
lamps. By-and-by Mr. Geordie entered.
"Mph! mph!" he sniffed, as he came in. "You smell of lamp-smoke here."
That always galls people,--to have a new-comer accuse them of smoke or
close air, which they have got used to and do not perceive. The Colonel
raged at the thought of his lamps' smoking, and tongued a few anathemas
inside of his shut teeth, but turned down two or three that burned
higher than the rest.
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