"As if I could understand you! What puts Mrs. Pryor into your head?"
"You call her 'mama,' don't you?"
"She is my mama."
"Not possible—or so inefficient, so careless a mama—I should make a five times better one. You may laugh: I have no objection to see you laugh: your teeth—I hate ugly teeth; but yours are as pretty as a pearl necklace, and a necklace of which the pearls are very fair, even, and well matched, too."
"Martin, what now? I thought the Yorkes never paid compliments?"
"They have not done till this generation; but I feel as if it were my vocation to turn out a new variety of the Yorke species. I am rather tired of my own ancestors: we have traditions going back for four ages—tales of Hiram, which was the son of Hiram, which was the son of Samuel, which was the son of John, which was the son of Zerubbabel Yorke. All, from Zerubbabel down to the last Hiram, were such as you see my father. Before that, there was a Godfrey: we have his picture; it hangs in Moore's bed-room: it is like me. Of his character, we know nothing; but I am sure it was different to his descendants: he has long curling dark hair; he is carefully and cavalierly dressed. Having said that he is like me, I need not add that he is handsome."
"You are not handsome, Martin."
"No; but wait a while: just let me take my time: I mean to begin from this day to cultivate, to polish,—and we shall see."
