These remarks were not uttered. They remained in the privacy of the inner consciousness. What they really said was:
Dear Jones [inarticulately]: Miss Van Rensselaer.
Baby Van Rensselaer [inattentively]: Yes, it is rather warm.…
And they drifted apart in the crowd.
II.
THE SECOND CONVERSATION.
Thursday, April 13, 1882.
Of course, Dear Jones was the last to arrive of the favored children of the world who had been invited to dine at Judge Gillespie’s “to meet the Lord Bishop of Barset,” just imported from England per steamer “Servia.” In the hall, the butler, whose appearance was even more dignified and clerical than the Bishop’s, handed Dear Jones an unsealed communication.
Dear Jones [examining the contents]: Who in Heligoland is Miss Van Rensselaer?
As Dear Jones entered, Mrs. Sutton—the Judge’s daughter, you know—married Charley Sutton, who came from San Francisco—Mrs. Sutton gave a little sigh of relief, nodded to the butler, and said in perfunctory answer to the apologies Dear Jones had not made: “Oh, no; you’re not a bit late—we haven’t been waiting for you at all—the Bishop has only just come”—(confidentially in his ear) “I’ve given you a charming girl.” [Dear Jones shuddered: he knew what that generally meant.] “You know Baby Van Rensselaer? Of course—there she is—now, go—and do be bright and clever.” And after thus handicapping an inoffensive young man, she took the Bishop’s arm in the middle of his ante-prandial anecdote.
Dear Jones [marching to his fate]: It’s the Duchess’s girl again, by Jove! It’s lucky Uncle Larry is going to take me off at ten sharp.