Miss Branly, by far the
most pleasing of the lady-patronesses, was a fragile, stove-dried
mantua-maker,--and, truly, it seemed something like poetic justice to
recompense her depressed existence with the satisfactions of a material
heaven full of marryings and givings in marriage.
"Will Sir Joseph tip for us again?" inquired Miss Turligood, with her
eyes fixed upon a crack in the mahogany table. "Will he? Will he not?
Will he?"
Sir Joseph vouchsafed no answer.
"Hark! wasn't that a rap?" cried Stellato, in a husky whisper.
Here every one pricked an ear towards the table.
"Doctor Franklin, is that you?"
"The Doctor promised to be present to give a scientific and
philosophical view of these communications," parenthesized the
interrogator.
"Doctor Franklin, is that _you_?"
A faint creaking is audible.
"Byron's sign, as I'm a living woman!" ejaculated the Widow Colfodder.
"Her spiritual partner and guardian-angel," explained Miss
Turligood,--and this for my satisfaction as the last-comer.
Direct examination by the widow:--
"Have you brought your patent lyre here to-night?"
For the enlightenment of the company:--
"He played the lyre so beautiful on earth, that when he got to the
spheres a committee gave him a golden one, with all the modern
improvements.
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