sometimes in summer a little currant shrub,--from our own currants, you
know. My own mother,--that is, I call her my own mother, because, you
know, I do not remember," etc., etc., etc.; till they came to the
candied orange at the end of the feast, when Dennis, rather confused,
thought he must say something, and tried No. 4,--"I agree, in general,
with my friend the other side of the room,"--which he never should have
said but at a public meeting. But Mrs. Jeffries, who never listens
expecting to understand, caught him up instantly with "Well, I'm sure my
husband returns the compliment; he always agrees with you,--though we do
worship with the Methodists; but you know, Mr. Ingham," etc., etc.,
etc., till the move up-stairs; and as Dennis led her through the hall,
he was scarcely understood by any but Polly, as he said, "There has been
so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that I will not occupy
the time."

His great resource the rest of the evening was standing in the library,
carrying on animated conversations with one and another in much the same
way. Polly had initiated him in the mysteries of a discovery of mine,
that it is not necessary to finish your sentences in a crowd, but by a
sort of mumble, omitting sibilants and dentals. This, indeed, if your
words fail you, answers even in public extempore speech, but better
where other talking is going on. Thus: "We missed you at the Natural
History Society, Ingham." Ingham replies, "I am very gligloglum, that
is, that you were mmmmm." By gradually dropping the voice, the
interlocutor is compelled to supply the answer. "Mrs. Ingham, I hope
your friend Augusta is better." Augusta has not been ill. Polly cannot
think of explaining, however, and answers, "Thank you, Ma'am; she is
very rearason wewahwewoh," in lower and lower tones. And Mrs.
Throckmorton, who forgot the subject of which she spoke as soon as she
asked the question, is quite satisfied. Dennis could see into the
card-room, and came to Polly to ask if he might not go and play
all-fours. But, of course, she sternly refused. At midnight they came
home delighted,--Polly, as I said, wild to tell me the story of the
victory; only both the pretty Walton girls said, "Cousin Frederic, you
did not come near me all the evening."

We always called him Dennis at home, for convenience, though his real
name was Frederic Ingham, as I have explained. When the election-day
came round, however, I found that by some acci