Our dinner that night was very quiet.
Mr. Purvis drank only water. That, with a little salad,
made his meal. He had a meeting to address that evening
at eight, a meeting of women--"dear women" he called
them--who had recently affiliated their society with the
work that some of the dear women in Mr. Purvis's own town
were carrying on. The work, as described, boded no good
for breweries. Mr. Purvis's wife, so it seemed, was with
him and would also "take the platform."
As best we could we made conversation.
"I didn't know that you were married," said Mr. Sims.
"Yes," said Mr. Purvis, "married, and with five dear boys
and three dear girls." The eight of them, he told us,
were a great blessing. So, too, was his wife--a great
social worker, it seemed, in the cause of women's rights
and a marvellous platform speaker in the temperance
crusade.
"By the way, Mr. Sims," said Mr. Purvis (they had called
one another "Mr." after the first five minutes), "you
may remember my wife. I think perhaps you knew her in
our college days. She was a Miss Dashaway."
Mr. Sims bowed his head over his plate, as another of
his lost illusions vanished into thin air.
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