Baby Van Rensselaer [earnestly]: And we didn’t meet? How miserably absurd!
Dear Jones: I’ll tell you whom I did meet—your father’s partner, Mr. Hitchcock. He had his daughter with him, too—a very bright girl. You know her, of course.
Baby Van Rensselaer [coldly]: I have heard she is quite clever. [A pause.] The Hitchcocks—I believe—go more in the—New England set. I have met her brother, though—Mr. Mather Hitchcock.…
Dear Jones: Mat Hitchcock; that little cad?
Baby Van Rensselaer: Is he a little cad? I thought he was rather—bright.
After this, conversation was desultory; and soon the male guests were left to their untrammeled selves, tobacco and the Bishop. At eleven minutes past ten, in the vestibule of Judge Gillespie’s house, a young man and a man not so young were buttoning their overcoats and lighting their cigarettes. In the parlor behind them a soft contralto voice was lingering on the rich, deep notes of “Der Asra,” the sweetest song of Jewish inspiration, the song of Heine and of Rubinstein. They paused a moment as the voice died away in
“Und mein Stamm sind jene Asra,
Welche sterben wenn sie lieben!”
The man not so young said: “Well, come along. What are you waiting for?”