‘He laughs, and so does Bessie,’ said the mother.
‘Laughs! Does he? But I do assure you Arthurine never meant any place in particular; she only intended to describe the way things go on in country districts, don’t you understand? She was talking one day at the Myttons, and they were all so much amused that they wanted her to write it down. She read it one evening when they were with us, and they declared it was too good not to be published—and almost before she knew it, Fred Mytton’s literary friend got hold of it and took it to the agency of this paper. But indeed, indeed, she never thought of its being considered personal, and is as vexed as possible at the way in which it has been taken up. She has every feeling about your kindness to us, and she was so shocked when Pansy Mytton told us that the Admiral was furious.’
‘Whoever told Miss Mytton so made a great mistake. The Admiral only is—is—amused—as you know gentlemen will be at young girls’ little—little scrapes,’ returned Mrs. Merrifield, longing to say ‘impertinences,’ but refraining, and scarcely believing what nevertheless was true, that Arthurine did not know how personal she had been, although her mother said it all over again twice. Bessie, however, did believe it, from experience of resemblances where she had never intended direct portraiture; and when there was a somewhat earnest invitation to a garden party at the Gap, the Merrifields not only accepted for themselves, but persuaded as many of their neighbours as they could to countenance the poor girl. ‘There is something solid at the bottom in spite of all the effervescence,’ said Bessie.
It was late in the year for a garden party, being on the 2d of October, but weather and other matters had caused delays, and the Indian summer had begun with warm sun and exquisite tints. ‘What would not the maple and the liquid amber have been by this time,’ thought the sisters, ‘if they had been spared.’ Some of the petite noblesse, however, repented of their condescension when they saw how little it was appreciated. Mrs. Arthuret, indeed, was making herself the best hostess that a lady who had served no apprenticeship could be to all alike, but Arthurine or ‘Atty,’ as Daisy and Pansy were heard shouting to her—all in white flannels, a man all but the petticoats—seemed to be absorbed in a little court of the second-rate people of Bonchamp, some whom, as Mrs. Greville and Lady Smithson agreed, they had never expected to meet. She was laughing and talking eagerly, and by and by ran up to Bessie, exclaiming in a patronising tone—
‘Oh! my dear Miss Bessie, let me introduce you to Mr. Foxholm—such a clever literary man. He knows everybody—all about everybody and everything. It would be such an advantage! And he has actually made me give him my autograph! Only think of that!’
Bessie thought of her own good luck in being anonymous, but did not express it, only saying, ‘Autograph-hunters are a great nuisance. I know several people who find them so.’
‘Yes, he said it was one of the penalties of fame that one must submit to,’ returned Miss Arthuret, with a delighted laugh of consciousness.
Bessie rejoiced that none of her own people were near to see the patronising manner in which Arthurine introduced her to Mr. Foxholm, a heavily-bearded man, whose eyes she did not at all like, and who began by telling her that he felt as if he had crossed the Rubicon, and entering an Arcadia, had found a Parnassus.
Bessie looked to see whether the highly-educated young lady detected the malaprop for the Helicon, but Arthurine was either too well-bred or too much exalted to notice either small slips, or even bad taste, and she stood smiling and blushing complacently. However, just then Susan hurried up. ‘Bessie, you are wanted. Here’s a card. The gentleman sent it in, and papa asked me to find you.’
Bessie opened her eyes. The card belonged to the editor of one of the most noted magazines of the day, but one whose principles she did not entirely approve. What could be coming?