The crowd swallows Mrs. Gray, and at the same moment Mr. Drummond is seized upon by a sharp-looking elderly female, who drags him off as if she were conveying him into some sly corner where she may devour him undisturbed. Mrs. Jones turns to move toward the other parlor.
At that moment she is accosted by a lady of an appearance so airy, both as regards dress and manner, as to suggest that she is a mislaid member of some ballet troupe.
“Why, how do you do?” she cried, with a vivacity quite in keeping with her appearance. “My dear Mrs. Jones, I haven’t seen you since I got back from Europe.”
“Why, Susie Throgmorton, is it really you? I didn’t know you were home.”
“That shows what an unimportant person I am.”
“Oh, I knew you came home from Europe, but I thought you were still in New York.”
“Oh, I only went on to see Aunt Dinah for a couple of days. I got caught in the most awful storm you ever saw.”
“But the winter,” Mrs. Chumley Jones observes, with an air of freshness and conviction which is something beautiful to see, “has been as mild as a Roman winter most of the time.”
“Yes, it has been like a Roman winter.”
The crowd separates them and they go their several ways, each repeating that it is like a Roman winter; but meanwhile the same observation is being scattered broadcast by Mr. Maunder, Mr. Lasceet, and Mr. Drummond, so that, although there are a good many people in the room, they are in a fair way of being all informed that the winter strongly resembles that of Rome; a statement which, if true, may be regarded as of the highest importance.