“Why, perhaps not,” said the merchant host; “nevertheless, it often supplies a good imitation of the article. Come, come, you mustn’t abuse money, Mrs. Jericho. That’s the rightful privilege of people who can’t get it.”
“Dear Mrs. Carraways! Well, this is lovely! Quite oriental! Superb!” cried Mrs. Jericho, with deepening emphasis greeting the lady of the place. “I vow, it takes one quite back to the Persian poets.”
“Very good company, no doubt,” said Carraways, laughing; “but, after all, I rather prefer this to any gardens on foolscap. Better company, too”—and the old gentleman bent gallantly to Mrs. Jericho and Monica—“much better company than the best of people, made of the best of ink. My dear,” said Carraways to his wife, “where’s Bessy?”
“Oh yes! Where is dear Bessy?” cried Monica, with tremulous anxiety. Mrs. Carraways nodded towards a party of dancers, where was Bessy Carraways—a girl, whose best beauty was the open goodness of her face—dancing with Sir Arthur Hodmadod; Miss Candituft apart smiling—as the Spartan young gentleman smiled with the fox that fed upon him—and following Bessy with speaking eyes, and shaking her golden tresses, and beating her silver foot in blithe accompaniment of the measure.
“How beautiful is Bessy to-day!” said Miss Candituft, joining Bessy’s father and mother.
“Quite delicious,” cried Miss Pennibacker to Bessy’s mother; and Miss Candituft swerved her fair neck, and opened her cold eyes at Monica, as though resenting any admiration of so interesting a subject as a trespass upon her own monopoly of love. And then she said, with new supply of fervour—“She carries all hearts with her.”
“She is so beautiful,” again interposed Monica.—Again Miss Candituft stared.
“Why, as for that, she’s very good—and very like her mother,” said Carraways, and then he laughed at his wife, and added—“and so we won’t talk so much about the beauty. However, perhaps I’m grown too old to judge;” and the father looked towards his child, and his face glowed with pride and pleasure as she nodded to him, and wove in and out the dance, young, healthful, and happy as a nymph.
“Ugh! Mr. Carraways,—this is too good; too fine; too grand for poor folks. It’s cruel of you—sheer barbarity, sir; hard-hearted pride of purse, nothing better. Cruel, sir; cruel,” gasped Colonel Bones, offering his hand to the hostess, then to the host, and then making a courteous sweeping bow to the ladies; for Bones was gallant to the last.
“What, then, Colonel”—cried Miss Candituft—“you don’t enjoy this elysium? You don’t like to tread upon asphodel?”