Yet the Jabberwocks were by no means bluestockings (a class of persons which Joan held in some dread). They frequently were invited to So-and-so's dinner, and usually managed to appear extremely well-clad at such-and-such an affair; and the passion they evinced for bon-bons and weak tea would alone have protected them from the charge of over-seriousness.
Joan, after politely maintaining silence till she could bear it no more, presently burst into a certain discussion with an apt quotation on the subject from Stefan Nikolai. She was unprepared for the respectful silence that greeted her remark.
"You say," murmured somebody, "that Stefan Nikolai told you that? You know him, then, Miss Darcy?"
"Oh, yes. Very well indeed."
"How perfectly wonderful!" sighed the Jabberwocks.
"You see," explained Emily, "we've been studying him all winter. Oh, if we'd only known about you earlier!"
Joan laughed. It had not occurred to her that her friend was a person people met in solemn conclave to "study." (Why it should be that personal acquaintance with a celebrity invariably dims his luster to the affectionate eye is a puzzle which may be left to the psychologists.)
"Do tell us what he looks like!" demanded the Jabberwocks in unison. "Is he handsome?" (From which it may be gathered that the club did not devote itself to things intellectual, exclusively.)
"Why, yes—yes, I suppose he is," said Joan, pausing to reflect. "He's distinguished-looking, quite foreign, you know; with very expressive eyes and a fine, sensitive sort of face. He's not like our men exactly—and yet he doesn't look Jewish. You know his mother was a Christian. But his father was born in the Ghetto, somewhere in Russia, and Stefan actually worked in a sweat-shop when he first came to this country.—He was the son of a rabbi, though."
"They always are," murmured Emily en passant. "Rabbis always seem to have such large families. Rabbis and rabbits—did you ever notice?"