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Oliver Goldsmith (1730`"1774) wrote criticism, plays, novels, biographies, travelogues, and nearly every other conceivable kind of composition. This good- humored essay is from a series published in the Public Ledger and then in book form as The Citizen of the World (1762). Were we to estimate the learning of the English by the number of books that are every day published among them, perhaps no country, not even China itself, could equal them in this particular. I have reckoned not less than twenty-three new books published in one day, which, upon computation, makes eight thousand three hundred and ninety-five in one year. Most of these are not confined to one single science, but embrace the whole circle. History, politics, poetry, mathematics, metaphysics, and the philosophy of nature, are all comprised in a manual no larger than that in which our children are taught the letters. If then, we suppose the learned of England to read but an eighth part of the works which daily come from the press and surely non can pretend to learning upon less easy terms), at this rate every scholar will read a thousand books in one year. From such a calculation, you may conjecture what an amazing fund of literature a man must be possessed of, who thus reads three new books every day, not one of which but contains all the good things that ever were said or written. And yet I know not how it happens, but the English are not, in reality so learned as would seem from this calculation. We meet but few who know all arts and sciences to perfection; whether it is that the generality are incapable of such extensive knowledge, or that the authors of those books are not adequate instructors. In China, the Emperor himself takes cognizance of all the doctors in the kingdom who profess authorship. In England, every man may be an author, that can write; for they have by law a liberty, not only of saying what they please, but of being also as dull as they please. Yesterday, as I testified to my surprise, to the man in black, where writers could be found in sufficient number to throw off the books I saw daily crowding from the press. I at first imagined that their learned seminaries might take this method of instructing the world. But, to obviate this objection, my companion assured me that the doctors of colleges never wrote, and that some of them had actually forgot their reading. `But if you desire,` continued he, `to see a collection of authors, I fancy I can introduce you to a club, which assembles every Saturday at seven ...` I accepted his invitation; we walked together, and entered the house some time before the usual hour for the company assembling. My friend took this opportunity of letting me into the characters of the principal members of the club... `The first person,` said he, `of our society is Doctor Nonentity, a metaphysician. Most people think him a profound scholar, but, as he seldom speaks, I cannot be positive in that particular; he generally spreads himself before the fire, sucks his pipe, talks little, drinks much, and is reckoned very good company. I'm told he writes indexes to perfection: he makes essays on the origin of evil, philosophical inquiries upon any subject, and draws up an answer to any book upon 24 hours' warning ...` The tone of paragraph 2 may best be described as:

Oliver Goldsmith (1730`"1774) wrote criticism, plays, novels, biographies, travelogues, and nearly every other conceivable kind of composition. This good- humored essay is from a series published in the Public Ledger and then in book form as The Citizen of the World (1762). Were we to estimate the learning of the English by the number of books that are every day published among them, perhaps no country, not even China itself, could equal them in this particular. I have reckoned not less than twenty-three new books published in one day, which, upon computation, makes eight thousand three hundred and ninety-five in one year. Most of these are not confined to one single science, but embrace the whole circle. History, politics, poetry, mathematics, metaphysics, and the philosophy of nature, are all comprised in a manual no larger than that in which our children are taught the letters. If then, we suppose the learned of England to read but an eighth part of the works which daily come from the press and surely non can pretend to learning upon less easy terms), at this rate every scholar will read a thousand books in one year. From such a calculation, you may conjecture what an amazing fund of literature a man must be possessed of, who thus reads three new books every day, not one of which but contains all the good things that ever were said or written. And yet I know not how it happens, but the English are not, in reality so learned as would seem from this calculation. We meet but few who know all arts and sciences to perfection; whether it is that the generality are incapable of such extensive knowledge, or that the authors of those books are not adequate instructors. In China, the Emperor himself takes cognizance of all the doctors in the kingdom who profess authorship. In England, every man may be an author, that can write; for they have by law a liberty, not only of saying what they please, but of being also as dull as they please. Yesterday, as I testified to my surprise, to the man in black, where writers could be found in sufficient number to throw off the books I saw daily crowding from the press. I at first imagined that their learned seminaries might take this method of instructing the world. But, to obviate this objection, my companion assured me that the doctors of colleges never wrote, and that some of them had actually forgot their reading. `But if you desire,` continued he, `to see a collection of authors, I fancy I can introduce you to a club, which assembles every Saturday at seven ...` I accepted his invitation; we walked together, and entered the house some time before the usual hour for the company assembling. My friend took this opportunity of letting me into the characters of the principal members of the club... `The first person,` said he, `of our society is Doctor Nonentity, a metaphysician. Most people think him a profound scholar, but, as he seldom speaks, I cannot be positive in that particular; he generally spreads himself before the fire, sucks his pipe, talks little, drinks much, and is reckoned very good company. I'm told he writes indexes to perfection: he makes essays on the origin of evil, philosophical inquiries upon any subject, and draws up an answer to any book upon 24 hours' warning ...` Goldsmith first assumes that English writers come from:

Oliver Goldsmith (1730`"1774) wrote criticism, plays, novels, biographies, travelogues, and nearly every other conceivable kind of composition. This good- humored essay is from a series published in the Public Ledger and then in book form as The Citizen of the World (1762). Were we to estimate the learning of the English by the number of books that are every day published among them, perhaps no country, not even China itself, could equal them in this particular. I have reckoned not less than twenty-three new books published in one day, which, upon computation, makes eight thousand three hundred and ninety-five in one year. Most of these are not confined to one single science, but embrace the whole circle. History, politics, poetry, mathematics, metaphysics, and the philosophy of nature, are all comprised in a manual no larger than that in which our children are taught the letters. If then, we suppose the learned of England to read but an eighth part of the works which daily come from the press and surely non can pretend to learning upon less easy terms), at this rate every scholar will read a thousand books in one year. From such a calculation, you may conjecture what an amazing fund of literature a man must be possessed of, who thus reads three new books every day, not one of which but contains all the good things that ever were said or written. And yet I know not how it happens, but the English are not, in reality so learned as would seem from this calculation. We meet but few who know all arts and sciences to perfection; whether it is that the generality are incapable of such extensive knowledge, or that the authors of those books are not adequate instructors. In China, the Emperor himself takes cognizance of all the doctors in the kingdom who profess authorship. In England, every man may be an author, that can write; for they have by law a liberty, not only of saying what they please, but of being also as dull as they please. Yesterday, as I testified to my surprise, to the man in black, where writers could be found in sufficient number to throw off the books I saw daily crowding from the press. I at first imagined that their learned seminaries might take this method of instructing the world. But, to obviate this objection, my companion assured me that the doctors of colleges never wrote, and that some of them had actually forgot their reading. `But if you desire,` continued he, `to see a collection of authors, I fancy I can introduce you to a club, which assembles every Saturday at seven ...` I accepted his invitation; we walked together, and entered the house some time before the usual hour for the company assembling. My friend took this opportunity of letting me into the characters of the principal members of the club... `The first person,` said he, `of our society is Doctor Nonentity, a metaphysician. Most people think him a profound scholar, but, as he seldom speaks, I cannot be positive in that particular; he generally spreads himself before the fire, sucks his pipe, talks little, drinks much, and is reckoned very good company. I'm told he writes indexes to perfection: he makes essays on the origin of evil, philosophical inquiries upon any subject, and draws up an answer to any book upon 24 hours' warning ...` The word obviate (paragraph 4) means:

Pauline Johnson (1861`"1913) was the daughter of Mohawk leader George Henry Martin; her mother was English. Johnson was known in her time as a poet and performer. For years she toured throughout Canada giving dramatic readings. Late in her life she turned to writing short stories. This excerpt is from `A Red Girl's Reasoning,` first published in 1893. `How interesting `" do tell us some more of your old home, Mrs. McDonald; you so seldom speak of your life at the post, and we fellows so often wish to hear of it all,` said Logan eagerly. `Why do you not ask me of it, then?` `Well `" er, I'm sure I don't know; I'm fully interested in the Ind `" in your people `" your mother's people, I mean, but it always seems so personal, I suppose; and `" a `" a `" ` `Perhaps you are, like all other white people, afraid to mention my nationality to me.` The captain winced, and Mrs. Stuart laughed uneasily. Joe McDonald was not far off, and he was listening, and chuckling, and saying to himself, `That's you, Christie, lay `˜em out; it won't hurt `˜em to know how they appear once in a while.` `Well, Captain Logan,` she was saying, `what is it you would like to hear `" of my people, or my parents, or myself?` `All, all, my dear,` cried Mrs. Stuart clamorously. `I'll speak for him `" tell us of yourself and your mother `" your father is delightful, I am sure `" but then he is only an ordinary Englishman, not half so interesting as a foreigner, or `" or perhaps I should say, a native.` Christie laughed. `Yes,` she said, `my father often teases my mother now about how very native she was when he married her; then, how could she have been otherwise? She did not know a word of English, and there was not another English-speaking person besides my father and his two companions within sixty miles.` `Two companions, eh? One a Catholic priest and the other a wine merchant, I suppose, and with your father in the Hudson Bay, they were good representatives of the pioneers in the New World,` remarked Logan waggishly. `Oh, no, they were all Hudson Bay men. There were no rumsellers and no missionaries in that part of the country then.` Mrs. Stuart looked puzzled. `No missionaries?` she repeated with an odd intonation. Christie's insight was quick. There was a peculiar expression of interrogation in the eyes of her listeners, and the girl's blood leapt angrily up into her temples as she said hurriedly, `I know what you mean; I know what you are thinking. You are wondering how my parents were married `" ` `Well `" er, my dear, it seems peculiar if there was no priest, and no magistrate, why `" a `" ` Mrs. Stuart paused awkwardly. `The marriage was performed by Indian rites,` said Christie. `Oh, do tell about it; is the ceremony very interesting and quaint `" are your chieftains anything like Buddhist priests?` It was Logan who spoke. `Why, no,` said the girl in amazement at that gentleman's ignorance. `There is no ceremony at all, save a feast. The two people just agree to live only with and for each other, and the man takes his wife to his home, just as you do. There is no ritual to bind them; they need none; an Indian's word was his law in those days, you know.` Mrs. Stuart stepped backwards. `Ah!` was all she said. Logan removed his eyeglass and stared blankly at Christie. `And did McDonald marry you in this singular fashion?` he questioned. `Oh, no, we were married by Father O'Leary.
Why do you ask?` `Because if he had, I'd have blown his brains out tomorrow.` Mrs. Stuart's partner, who had heretofore been silent, coughed and began to twirl his cuff stud nervously, but nobody took notice of him. Christie had risen, slowly, ominously `" risen, with the dignity and pride of an empress. `Captain Logan,` she said, `what do you dare to say to me? What do you dare to mean? Do you presume to think it would not have been lawful for Joe to marry me according to my people's rites? Do you for one instant dare to question that my parents were not as legally `" ` `Don't, dear, don't,` interrupted Mrs. Stuart hurriedly, `it is bad enough now, goodness knows; don't make `" ` Then she broke off blindly. The word post probably means:

Pauline Johnson (1861`"1913) was the daughter of Mohawk leader George Henry Martin; her mother was English. Johnson was known in her time as a poet and performer. For years she toured throughout Canada giving dramatic readings. Late in her life she turned to writing short stories. This excerpt is from `A Red Girl's Reasoning,` first published in 1893. `How interesting `" do tell us some more of your old home, Mrs. McDonald; you so seldom speak of your life at the post, and we fellows so often wish to hear of it all,` said Logan eagerly. `Why do you not ask me of it, then?` `Well `" er, I'm sure I don't know; I'm fully interested in the Ind `" in your people `" your mother's people, I mean, but it always seems so personal, I suppose; and `" a `" a `" ` `Perhaps you are, like all other white people, afraid to mention my nationality to me.` The captain winced, and Mrs. Stuart laughed uneasily. Joe McDonald was not far off, and he was listening, and chuckling, and saying to himself, `That's you, Christie, lay `˜em out; it won't hurt `˜em to know how they appear once in a while.` `Well, Captain Logan,` she was saying, `what is it you would like to hear `" of my people, or my parents, or myself?` `All, all, my dear,` cried Mrs. Stuart clamorously. `I'll speak for him `" tell us of yourself and your mother `" your father is delightful, I am sure `" but then he is only an ordinary Englishman, not half so interesting as a foreigner, or `" or perhaps I should say, a native.` Christie laughed. `Yes,` she said, `my father often teases my mother now about how very native she was when he married her; then, how could she have been otherwise? She did not know a word of English, and there was not another English-speaking person besides my father and his two companions within sixty miles.` `Two companions, eh? One a Catholic priest and the other a wine merchant, I suppose, and with your father in the Hudson Bay, they were good representatives of the pioneers in the New World,` remarked Logan waggishly. `Oh, no, they were all Hudson Bay men. There were no rumsellers and no missionaries in that part of the country then.` Mrs. Stuart looked puzzled. `No missionaries?` she repeated with an odd intonation. Christie's insight was quick. There was a peculiar expression of interrogation in the eyes of her listeners, and the girl's blood leapt angrily up into her temples as she said hurriedly, `I know what you mean; I know what you are thinking. You are wondering how my parents were married `" ` `Well `" er, my dear, it seems peculiar if there was no priest, and no magistrate, why `" a `" ` Mrs. Stuart paused awkwardly.
`The marriage was performed by Indian rites,` said Christie. `Oh, do tell about it; is the ceremony very interesting and quaint `" are your chieftains anything like Buddhist priests?` It was Logan who spoke. `Why, no,` said the girl in amazement at that gentleman's ignorance. `There is no ceremony at all, save a feast. The two people just agree to live only with and for each other, and the man takes his wife to his home, just as you do. There is no ritual to bind them; they need none; an Indian's word was his law in those days, you know.` Mrs. Stuart stepped backwards. `Ah!` was all she said. Logan removed his eyeglass and stared blankly at Christie. `And did McDonald marry you in this singular fashion?` he questioned. `Oh, no, we were married by Father O'Leary.
Why do you ask?` `Because if he had, I'd have blown his brains out tomorrow.` Mrs. Stuart's partner, who had heretofore been silent, coughed and began to twirl his cuff stud nervously, but nobody took notice of him. Christie had risen, slowly, ominously `" risen, with the dignity and pride of an empress. `Captain Logan,` she said, `what do you dare to say to me? What do you dare to mean? Do you presume to think it would not have been lawful for Joe to marry me according to my people's rites? Do you for one instant dare to question that my parents were not as legally `" ` `Don't, dear, don't,` interrupted Mrs. Stuart hurriedly, `it is bad enough now, goodness knows; don't make `" ` Then she broke off blindly.
What is Joe McDonald's initial reaction to his wife's attitude toward the captain and Mrs. Stuart?

Pauline Johnson (1861`"1913) was the daughter of Mohawk leader George Henry Martin; her mother was English. Johnson was known in her time as a poet and performer. For years she toured throughout Canada giving dramatic readings. Late in her life she turned to writing short stories. This excerpt is from `A Red Girl's Reasoning,` first published in 1893. `How interesting `" do tell us some more of your old home, Mrs. McDonald; you so seldom speak of your life at the post, and we fellows so often wish to hear of it all,` said Logan eagerly. `Why do you not ask me of it, then?` `Well `" er, I'm sure I don't know; I'm fully interested in the Ind `" in your people `" your mother's people, I mean, but it always seems so personal, I suppose; and `" a `" a `" ` `Perhaps you are, like all other white people, afraid to mention my nationality to me.` The captain winced, and Mrs. Stuart laughed uneasily. Joe McDonald was not far off, and he was listening, and chuckling, and saying to himself, `That's you, Christie, lay `˜em out; it won't hurt `˜em to know how they appear once in a while.` `Well, Captain Logan,` she was saying, `what is it you would like to hear `" of my people, or my parents, or myself?` `All, all, my dear,` cried Mrs. Stuart clamorously. `I'll speak for him `" tell us of yourself and your mother `" your father is delightful, I am sure `" but then he is only an ordinary Englishman, not half so interesting as a foreigner, or `" or perhaps I should say, a native.` Christie laughed. `Yes,` she said, `my father often teases my mother now about how very native she was when he married her; then, how could she have been otherwise? She did not know a word of English, and there was not another English-speaking person besides my father and his two companions within sixty miles.` `Two companions, eh? One a Catholic priest and the other a wine merchant, I suppose, and with your father in the Hudson Bay, they were good representatives of the pioneers in the New World,` remarked Logan waggishly. `Oh, no, they were all Hudson Bay men. There were no rumsellers and no missionaries in that part of the country then.` Mrs. Stuart looked puzzled. `No missionaries?` she repeated with an odd intonation. Christie's insight was quick. There was a peculiar expression of interrogation in the eyes of her listeners, and the girl's blood leapt angrily up into her temples as she said hurriedly, `I know what you mean; I know what you are thinking. You are wondering how my parents were married `" ` `Well `" er, my dear, it seems peculiar if there was no priest, and no magistrate, why `" a `" ` Mrs. Stuart paused awkwardly. `The marriage was performed by Indian rites,` said Christie. `Oh, do tell about it; is the ceremony very interesting and quaint `" are your chieftains anything like Buddhist priests?` It was Logan who spoke. `Why, no,` said the girl in amazement at that gentleman's ignorance. `There is no ceremony at all, save a feast. The two people just agree to live only with and for each other, and the man takes his wife to his home, just as you do. There is no ritual to bind them; they need none; an Indian's word was his law in those days, you know.` Mrs. Stuart stepped backwards. `Ah!` was all she said. Logan removed his eyeglass and stared blankly at Christie. `And did McDonald marry you in this singular fashion?` he questioned. `Oh, no, we were married by Father O'Leary.
Why do you ask?` `Because if he had, I'd have blown his brains out tomorrow.` Mrs. Stuart's partner, who had heretofore been silent, coughed and began to twirl his cuff stud nervously, but nobody took notice of him. Christie had risen, slowly, ominously `" risen, with the dignity and pride of an empress. `Captain Logan,` she said, `what do you dare to say to me? What do you dare to mean? Do you presume to think it would not have been lawful for Joe to marry me according to my people's rites? Do you for one instant dare to question that my parents were not as legally `" ` `Don't, dear, don't,` interrupted Mrs. Stuart hurriedly, `it is bad enough now, goodness knows; don't make `" ` Then she broke off blindly.
Why is Mrs. Stuart not particularly interested in hearing about Christie's father?

Pauline Johnson (1861`"1913) was the daughter of Mohawk leader George Henry Martin; her mother was English. Johnson was known in her time as a poet and performer. For years she toured throughout Canada giving dramatic readings. Late in her life she turned to writing short stories. This excerpt is from `A Red Girl's Reasoning,` first published in 1893. `How interesting `" do tell us some more of your old home, Mrs. McDonald; you so seldom speak of your life at the post, and we fellows so often wish to hear of it all,` said Logan eagerly. `Why do you not ask me of it, then?` `Well `" er, I'm sure I don't know; I'm fully interested in the Ind `" in your people `" your mother's people, I mean, but it always seems so personal, I suppose; and `" a `" a `" ` `Perhaps you are, like all other white people, afraid to mention my nationality to me.` The captain winced, and Mrs. Stuart laughed uneasily. Joe McDonald was not far off, and he was listening, and chuckling, and saying to himself, `That's you, Christie, lay `˜em out; it won't hurt `˜em to know how they appear once in a while.` `Well, Captain Logan,` she was saying, `what is it you would like to hear `" of my people, or my parents, or myself?` `All, all, my dear,` cried Mrs. Stuart clamorously. `I'll speak for him `" tell us of yourself and your mother `" your father is delightful, I am sure `" but then he is only an ordinary Englishman, not half so interesting as a foreigner, or `" or perhaps I should say, a native.` Christie laughed. `Yes,` she said, `my father often teases my mother now about how very native she was when he married her; then, how could she have been otherwise? She did not know a word of English, and there was not another English-speaking person besides my father and his two companions within sixty miles.` `Two companions, eh? One a Catholic priest and the other a wine merchant, I suppose, and with your father in the Hudson Bay, they were good representatives of the pioneers in the New World,` remarked Logan waggishly. `Oh, no, they were all Hudson Bay men. There were no rumsellers and no missionaries in that part of the country then.` Mrs. Stuart looked puzzled. `No missionaries?` she repeated with an odd intonation. Christie's insight was quick. There was a peculiar expression of interrogation in the eyes of her listeners, and the girl's blood leapt angrily up into her temples as she said hurriedly, `I know what you mean; I know what you are thinking. You are wondering how my parents were married `" ` `Well `" er, my dear, it seems peculiar if there was no priest, and no magistrate, why `" a `" ` Mrs. Stuart paused awkwardly. `The marriage was performed by Indian rites,` said Christie. `Oh, do tell about it; is the ceremony very interesting and quaint `" are your chieftains anything like Buddhist priests?` It was Logan who spoke. `Why, no,` said the girl in amazement at that gentleman's ignorance. `There is no ceremony at all, save a feast. The two people just agree to live only with and for each other, and the man takes his wife to his home, just as you do. There is no ritual to bind them; they need none; an Indian's word was his law in those days, you know.` Mrs. Stuart stepped backwards. `Ah!` was all she said. Logan removed his eyeglass and stared blankly at Christie. `And did McDonald marry you in this singular fashion?` he questioned. `Oh, no, we were married by Father O'Leary.
Why do you ask?` `Because if he had, I'd have blown his brains out tomorrow.` Mrs. Stuart's partner, who had heretofore been silent, coughed and began to twirl his cuff stud nervously, but nobody took notice of him. Christie had risen, slowly, ominously `" risen, with the dignity and pride of an empress. `Captain Logan,` she said, `what do you dare to say to me? What do you dare to mean? Do you presume to think it would not have been lawful for Joe to marry me according to my people's rites? Do you for one instant dare to question that my parents were not as legally `" ` `Don't, dear, don't,` interrupted Mrs. Stuart hurriedly, `it is bad enough now, goodness knows; don't make `" ` Then she broke off blindly. Mrs. Stuart's `odd intonation` apparently results from:

Pauline Johnson (1861`"1913) was the daughter of Mohawk leader George Henry Martin; her mother was English. Johnson was known in her time as a poet and performer. For years she toured throughout Canada giving dramatic readings. Late in her life she turned to writing short stories. This excerpt is from `A Red Girl's Reasoning,` first published in 1893. `How interesting `" do tell us some more of your old home, Mrs. McDonald; you so seldom speak of your life at the post, and we fellows so often wish to hear of it all,` said Logan eagerly. `Why do you not ask me of it, then?` `Well `" er, I'm sure I don't know; I'm fully interested in the Ind `" in your people `" your mother's people, I mean, but it always seems so personal, I suppose; and `" a `" a `" ` `Perhaps you are, like all other white people, afraid to mention my nationality to me.` The captain winced, and Mrs. Stuart laughed uneasily. Joe McDonald was not far off, and he was listening, and chuckling, and saying to himself, `That's you, Christie, lay `˜em out; it won't hurt `˜em to know how they appear once in a while.` `Well, Captain Logan,` she was saying, `what is it you would like to hear `" of my people, or my parents, or myself?` `All, all, my dear,` cried Mrs. Stuart clamorously. `I'll speak for him `" tell us of yourself and your mother `" your father is delightful, I am sure `" but then he is only an ordinary Englishman, not half so interesting as a foreigner, or `" or perhaps I should say, a native.` Christie laughed. `Yes,` she said, `my father often teases my mother now about how very native she was when he married her; then, how could she have been otherwise? She did not know a word of English, and there was not another English-speaking person besides my father and his two companions within sixty miles.` `Two companions, eh? One a Catholic priest and the other a wine merchant, I suppose, and with your father in the Hudson Bay, they were good representatives of the pioneers in the New World,` remarked Logan waggishly. `Oh, no, they were all Hudson Bay men. There were no rumsellers and no missionaries in that part of the country then.` Mrs. Stuart looked puzzled. `No missionaries?` she repeated with an odd intonation. Christie's insight was quick. There was a peculiar expression of interrogation in the eyes of her listeners, and the girl's blood leapt angrily up into her temples as she said hurriedly, `I know what you mean; I know what you are thinking. You are wondering how my parents were married `" ` `Well `" er, my dear, it seems peculiar if there was no priest, and no magistrate, why `" a `" ` Mrs. Stuart paused awkwardly. `The marriage was performed by Indian rites,` said Christie. `Oh, do tell about it; is the ceremony very interesting and quaint `" are your chieftains anything like Buddhist priests?` It was Logan who spoke. `Why, no,` said the girl in amazement at that gentleman's ignorance. `There is no ceremony at all, save a feast. The two people just agree to live only with and for each other, and the man takes his wife to his home, just as you do. There is no ritual to bind them; they need none; an Indian's word was his law in those days, you know.` Mrs. Stuart stepped backwards. `Ah!` was all she said. Logan removed his eyeglass and stared blankly at Christie. `And did McDonald marry you in this singular fashion?` he questioned. `Oh, no, we were married by Father O'Leary.
Why do you ask?` `Because if he had, I'd have blown his brains out tomorrow.` Mrs. Stuart's partner, who had heretofore been silent, coughed and began to twirl his cuff stud nervously, but nobody took notice of him. Christie had risen, slowly, ominously `" risen, with the dignity and pride of an empress. `Captain Logan,` she said, `what do you dare to say to me? What do you dare to mean? Do you presume to think it would not have been lawful for Joe to marry me according to my people's rites? Do you for one instant dare to question that my parents were not as legally `" ` `Don't, dear, don't,` interrupted Mrs. Stuart hurriedly, `it is bad enough now, goodness knows; don't make `" ` Then she broke off blindly. As the story continues, Joe McDonald is appalled and angry at Christie for `shocking` Logan and Mrs. Stuart. Based on the story so far, how would you expect Christie to react to Joe's disapproval?