Only the flattest literalism was intelligible to her; she could follow nothing but the very macadam of conversation--had no palate for anything but the suet-pudding of talk.' Rhoda's eyes twinkled, and Miss Barfoot laughed.

Everard was allowing himself a freedom in expression which hitherto he had sedulously avoided.
'Yes,' he continued, 'she was by birth a lady--which made the infliction harder to bear.

Poor old Poppleton! Again and again I have heard him--what do you think ?--laboriously _explaining_ jests to her.
That was a trial, as you may imagine.

There we sat, we three, in the unbeautiful little parlour--for they were anything but rich.

Poppleton would say something that convulsed me with laughter--in spite of my efforts, for I always dreaded the result so much that I strove my hardest to do no more than smile appreciation.