"_Oh_!" A sudden light seemed to dawn upon the dense masculine
understanding. Sir Peregrine was very proud of his beautiful wife. At
the private reception which she gave that evening the corn-coloured
silk gown was the centre of a group of government officials and the
social dignitaries of the time, between herself and whom the ball of
conversation kept lightly moving.
She turned from them to greet an old friend. "Ah, Commodore, so you
are really settled here for the winter. Rose told me that you had some
thoughts of remaining out in the bush through the cold season, in the
cosy but rather too exclusive manner of a family of chipmunks. What
have you been doing all summer?"
"Keeping myself unspotted from the world," replied the gentleman, with
a stately bow to the lady, and a sportive glance at the worthy
representatives of the social world surrounding her.
"How very scriptural! Do Bibles grow on bushes in the backwoods that
quotation of them comes so easily?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. Such searching theological questions are, I
suppose, what a man must expect to confront when he forsakes the
simple and sequestered life of the chipmunks.
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