“Well, of course, not exactly—inherited—I being her stepfather; but anyway,” he laughed, “music runs in the family. Take Mrs. Ford, for instance, never took a lesson in her life, but she certainly can play the piano.”
“Now, Ebner,” protested a voice behind Enoch’s chair.
Mrs. Ford, red from dressing, heralded by the faint rustle of a new lavender-silk dress, and a strong odor of violet perfume, swept effusively into the room.
“Well, Mr. Crane!” exclaimed that round little woman. (Mrs. Ford was really round all over. There were no angles.) “You don’t know how overjoyed we are to see you; how simply delighted!”
“My wife, Crane,” Ford endeavored to explain. She put forth a plump hand to Enoch as he rose from the rocker. “Ebner has so often spoken of you,” she burst out.
“Delighted to meet you, madam,” said Enoch. “I regret not having the double pleasure of seeing your daughter. Your husband tells me Miss Preston is out singing at a musicale.”
“At a tea, Mr. Crane,” declared Mrs. Ford, her small mouth pinched in a set smile. “At the Van Cortlandt’s. I tell Sue she’s getting on famously; of course you know the Van Cortlandts—as if there was any one in New York who didn’t. Of course you saw about their niece’s superb wedding in the papers the other day. Magnificent affair, wasn’t it?”
“Evidently it escaped me,” confessed Enoch.
“Why, Mr. Crane, the papers were full of it! As I tell Sue, when you do go into society, go into the best.”
“You are right, madam,” returned Enoch. “There is nothing rarer than good society; the best is none too good. It is more often shockingly bad.”