Lapham wanted to make
some open recognition of his good sense, but could not.
"I suppose the passion itself has been a good deal changed,"
said Bromfield Corey, "since the poets began to idealise
it in the days of chivalry."
"Yes; and it ought to be changed again," said Mr. Sewell.
"What! Back?"
"I don't say that. But it ought to be recognised
as something natural and mortal, and divine honours,
which belong to righteousness alone, ought not to be paid it."
"Oh, you ask too much, parson," laughed his host,
and the talk wandered away to something else.
It was not an elaborate dinner; but Lapham was used
to having everything on the table at once, and this
succession of dishes bewildered him; he was afraid
perhaps he was eating too much. He now no longer made
any pretence of not drinking his wine, for he was thirsty,
and there was no more water, and he hated to ask
for any. The ice-cream came, and then the fruit.
Suddenly Mrs. Corey rose, and said across the table to
her husband, "I suppose you will want your coffee here."
And he replied, "Yes; we'll join you at tea."
The ladies all rose, and the gentlemen got up with them.
Lapham started to follow Mrs. Corey, but the other men
merely stood in their places, except young Corey, who ran
and opened the door for his mother. Lapham thought
with shame that it was he who ought to have done that;
but no one seemed to notice, and he sat down again gladly,
after kicking out one of his legs which had gone
to sleep.
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