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distressingly

good; it

tires me

to death

to think

of it.”

“But this

is a

serious

subject,

my boy,

Auguste,”

said Miss

Ophelia,

laying her

hand on

his

forehead.

“Dismally

so,” said

he; “and I

– well, I

never want

to talk

seriously

in hot

weather.

What with

mosquitos

and all, a

fellow

can’t get

himself up

to any

very

sublime

moral

flights;

and I

believe,”

said St.

Clare,

suddenly

rousing

himself

up,

“there’s a

theory,

now! I

understand