"Pshaw," retorted Courtlandt. "Mention the name. It will work like magic."
"The name? What name?"
"Poughkeepsie. Do you suppose these haphazard Bohemians wouldn't like to better themselves if they could?"
Pauline took her hand from his arm, though he made a slight muscular movement of detention.
"They are not haphazard Bohemians," she said. "You know, too, that they are not. They are mostly people of intellect, of culture, of high and large views. I don't know what you mean by saying that they would 'like to better themselves.' Where have they ever heard of Aunt Cynthia? Her name would be simply a dead letter to them."
Courtlandt gave a low laugh, that was almost gruff, and was certainly harsh. "Where have they ever heard of Aunt Cynthia?" he repeated. "Why, she never dines out that the society column of half-a-dozen newspapers does not record it, and her name would be very far from a dead letter. It would be a decidedly living letter."
"But you don't understand," insisted Pauline, exasperatedly. "These people have no aims to know the so-called higher classes."
"Excuse me," said Courtlandt, with superb calm. "Everybody has aims to know the so-called higher classes—if he or she possibly can. Especially 'she'," he added in his colorless monotone.
Just then Pauline found herself confronted by Miss Upton. The moon-like face of this diminutive lady wore a flushed eagerness as she began to speak.
"Oh, Mrs. Varick," she said, "I've a great, great favor to ask of you! I want you to introduce me to your aunt, Mrs. Poughkeepsie."