Baby Van Rensselaer: Why, it’s that Mr. Jones!
These remarks were not uttered. They remained in the privacy of the inner consciousness. What they really said was:
Dear Jones [with audacious hypocrisy]: Of course, you don’t remember me, Miss Van Rensselaer.…
Baby Van Rensselaer [trumping his card unabashed]: I really don’t quite.…
Dear Jones [offering his arm]: Er … don’t you remember the Duch—Mrs. Martin’s—that hideously rainy afternoon, just before Lent?
Here there was a gap in the conversation as the procession took up its line of march, and moved through a narrow passage into the dining-room.
Dear Jones [making a brave dash at the “bright and clever”]: Well, in my house, the door into the dining-room shall be eighteen feet wide.
Baby Van Rensselaer [literal, stern, and cold]: Are you building a house, Mr. Jones?
Dear Jones [calmly]: I am at present, Miss Van Rensselaer, building—let me see—four—five—seven houses.