Four days later the pair had returned to town, which promptness seemed fairly to demonstrate that Wilbur had indeed taken Isabel upon the carefulest little trip he could manage.

According to every report, she was from the start "a good wife to him," but here in a final detail the prophecy proved inaccurate.
Wilbur and Isabel did not have children; they had only one.
"Only one," Mrs.Henry Franklin Foster admitted.

"But I'd like to know if he isn't spoiled enough for a whole carload!" Again she found none to challenge her.
At the age of nine, George Amberson Minafer, the Major's one grandchild, was a princely terror, dreaded not only in Amberson Addition but in many other quarters through which he galloped on his white pony.

"By golly, I guess you think you own this town!" an embittered labourer complained, one day, as Georgie rode the pony straight through a pile of sand the man was sieving.

"I will when I grow up," the undisturbed child replied.
"I guess my grandpa owns it now, you bet!" And the baffled workman, having no means to controvert what seemed a mere exaggeration of the facts could only mutter "Oh, pull down your vest!" "Don't haf to! Doctor says it ain't healthy!" the boy returned promptly.
"But I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll pull down my vest if you'll wipe off your chin!" This was stock and stencil: the accustomed argot of street badinage of the period; and in such matters Georgie was an expert.