"A lady commonly values herself by the length of her visiting-list. One or two hundred are respectable. Four or five hundred are desirable. Seven or eight hundred are honourable. Don't you see?"
"But how could one ever have time for so many?"
"One has not time. That's the charm of it,—always to be too busy to do anything or see anybody."
As if in echo, Miss Henniker's tones came across the tea-table,—"I assure you, if it had been possible—but I have been so desperately busy,—not a single moment disengaged. Absolutely not one free moment."
Dorothea broke into a soft laugh. She was beginning to feel quite at ease with this pleasant-mannered Mr. Claughton. Dorothea's laughter was always low, and the accompanying smile lighted up her whole face into positive prettiness. Mervyn received another grateful glance from Mrs. Effingham, while Emmeline sat in absolute silence.
"Don't you see?" he murmured.
"I don't see the charm of such a state of things."
"No? You haven't caught the infection yet. It's a race for life,—everybody trying to get first. Anything to be popular and successful. More friends—otherwise, a longer visiting-list—means popularity, which means success."
"I should like a different aim in life. Would not you?"
There was a movement of indifference. "I! O I do in town as town does—comment on the follies of my neighbours and run in the same groove. In London, I pride myself on the number of my acquaintances. At Craye, I pique myself upon their quality."