ensions were evidently more humorous than profound, for
his prevailing look was that of a genial man of affairs, not much afraid
of anything whatever Nevertheless, observing only his unfashionable
hair, his eyebrows, his preoccupied tie and his old coat, the olympic
George set him down as a queer-looking duck, and having thus completed
his portrait, took no interest in him.

The Sharon girls passed on, taking the queer-looking duck with them, and
George became pink with mortification as his mother called his attention
to a white-bearded guest waiting to shake his hand. This was George's
great-uncle, old John Minafer: it was old John's boast that in spite
of his connection by marriage with the Ambersons, he never had worn and
never would wear a swaller-tail coat. Members of his family had exerted
their influence uselessly--at eighty-nine conservative people seldom
form radical new habits, and old John wore his "Sunday suit" of black
broadcloth to the Amberson ball. The coat was square, with skirts to the
knees; old John called it a "Prince Albert" and was well enough pleased
with it, but his great-nephew considered it the next thing to an insult.
George's purpose had been to ignore the man, but he had to take his
hand for a moment; whereupon old John began to tell George that he was
looking well, though there had been a time, during his fourth month,
when he was so puny that nobody thought he would live. The great-nephew,
in a fury of blushes, dropped old John's hand with some vigour, and
seized that of the next person in the line. "Member you v'ry well
'ndeed!" he said fiercely.

The large room had filled, and so had the broad hall and the rooms
on the other side of the hall, where there were tables for whist. The
imported orchestra waited in the ballroom on the third floor, but
a local harp, 'cello, violin, and flute were playing airs from "The
Fencing Master" in the hall, and people were shouting over the music.
Old John Minafer's voice was louder and more penetrating than any other,
because he had been troubled with deafness for twenty-five years, heard
his own voice but faintly, and liked to hear it. "Smell o' flowers like
this always puts me in mind o' funerals," he kept telling his niece,
Fanny Minafer, who was with him; and he seemed to get a great deal of
satisfaction out of this reminder. His tremulous yet strident voice
cut through the voluminous sound that filled the room, and he was
heard everywhere: "Alway