CHAPTER XIX.
"Good-morning," said Mrs. Wainwright jovially to the students and then she stared at Coleman as if he were a sweep at a wedding.
" Good-morning," said Marjory.
Coleman and the students made reply. " Good-morning.
Good-morning. Good-morning. Good-morning—"
It was curious to see this greeting, this common phrase, this bit of old ware, this antique, come upon a dramatic scene and pulverise it. Nothing remained but a ridiculous dust. Coke, glowering, with his lips still trembling from heroic speech, was an angry clown, a pantaloon in rage. Nothing was to be done to keep him from looking like an a*s. He, strode toward the door mumbling about a walk before breakfast.
Mrs. Wainwright beamed upon him. " Why, Mr. Coke, not before breakfast ? You surely won't have time." It wa
