However, you contrive to do yourselves pretty well.

You're making your pile, aren't you?
Someone said to me the other day--can't remember who it was--that you were quite one of the rising men--quite one of _the_ men." "Very kind of someone," I said.
"And now I see," he went on, lifting up a copy of a morning paper, over which I had found him munching his salmon cutlet, "now I see your sister is going to marry a cabinet minister.

Ah!" he shook his poor, muddled, baked head, "I remember you both as tiny little dots." "Why," I said, "she can hardly have been born then." "Oh, yes," he affirmed, "that was when I came over in '78.

She remembered, too, that I brought her over an ivory doll--she remembered." "You have seen her ?" I asked.
"Oh, I called two or three weeks--no, months--ago.

She's the image of your poor, dear mother," he added, "at that age; I remarked upon it to your aunt, but, of course, she could not remember.