Mrs. Amble remained in suspense between the two.
Oh, Mr. Pollingray, if you were only on this side to help us,' Miss Alice
exclaimed very piteously, though I could see that she was half mad with
the internal struggle of laughter at the parents and concern for them.
'Now, pull, Alice,' shouted the vicar.
'No, not yet,' screamed Mrs. Amble; I'm sinking.'
'Pull, Alice.'
'Now, Mama.'
'Oh!'
'Push, Papa.'
'I'm down.'
'Up, Ma'am; Jane; woman, up.'
'Gently, Papa: Abraham, I will not.'
'My dear, but you must.'
'And that man opposite.'
'What, Pollingray? He's fifty.'
I found myself walking indignantly down the path. Even now I protest my
friend was guilty of bad manners, though I make every allowance for him;
I excuse, I pass the order; but why--what justifies one man's bawling out
another man's age? What purpose does it serve? I suppose the vicar wished
to reassure his wife, on the principle (I have heard him enunciate it)
that the sexes are merged at fifty--by which he means, I must presume,
that something which may be good or bad, and is generally silly--of
course, I admire and respect modesty and pudeur as much as any
man--something has gone: a recognition of the bounds of division.
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