"Ah," said one of the bachelors, "but his joy was sadder for us than his
misery. Hear him now."
"I think he means it for 'What's this dull town to me,'" observed another,
with some rancor. "I would willingly make the town sufficiently exciting
for him--"
"If there were not an ordinance against the hurling of missiles," finished
the widower.
The piano executing the funeral march ceased to execute, discomfited by
the persistent and overpowering violin; the banjo and the coster-songs
were given over; even the collegians' music was defeated; and the
neighborhood was forced to listen to the dauntless fiddle, but not without
protest, for there came an indignant, spoken chorus from the quarter
whence the college songs had issued: "Ya-a-ay! Wetherford, put it away!
_She'll_ come back!" The violin played on.
"We all know each other here, you see, Mr. Harkless," Miss Hinsdale smiled
benignantly.
"They didn't bother Mr. Wetherford Swift," said the widower. "Not that
time. Do you hear him?--'Could ye come back to me, Douglas'?"
"Oh, but it isn't absence that is killing him and his friends," cried one
of the young women. "It is Brainard Macauley."
"That is a mistake," said Tom Meredith, as easily as he could. "There
goes Jim's double quartette. Listen, and you will hear them try to----"
But the lady who had mentioned Brainard Macauley cried indignantly: "You
try to change the subject the moment it threatens to be interesting.
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