Well: whither should she lead? What next? Charity, intellect, art, and dancing had been worn to the last thread; hounds and horses were in, just now; and society, in pink coats and silk jockey-caps, was making nature’s acquaintance on Long Island and in Westchester County. But what on earth or in the waters under the earth was to come after this, Mrs. Gower did not yet know. Still, it was comforting to feel that when she did know, it would be done; this was certainly a pleasure; perhaps the only real one left to poor Flossie in her years of disillusion. As a parvenue, she was never tired of having her will over those who had been born her superiors; and it is a delightful novelty that in these days of no prejudices a parvenue need no longer climb to the level of society, but will find it both less troublesome and more tickling to the vanity to pull society down to her.
The free fancy of Mrs. Gower’s matron meditation was interrupted by the entrance of a deus with a machina—in other words, by a footman with Mr. Caryl Wemyss’s visiting-card.
“Is Mrs. Gower at home?” said the footman; and he commanded larger wages for the subtile infusion of “her ladyship” he was able to give a plain American patronymic if used in the third person. He also had calves; and made no other than a financial objection to silk stockings, if required.
“Let him come in,” said Flossie; and she drew a footstool to her and disposed herself more at ease, before the wide wood-fire.
Wemyss entered perfectly. There were two manners of meeting ladies most in vogue at this time, which may perhaps be described as the horsey and the cavalier. Of the former, which was perhaps the more fashionable, Jimmy De Witt was an excellent example; he would have come in with boisterous bonhomie, a stable-boy’s story, or a blunt approval of Flossie’s pretty ankle, which was being warmed before the fire; but Wemyss affected the old-fashioned, and was pleased to be conscious that his manners were, as he would have said, de vieille roche. He took her hand and bowed deeply over it, as if he wanted to kiss it, but did not dare; then, drawing a low ottoman in front of the fire, he sat down, as it were, at her feet.
“Well, Mr. Wemyss, how did you find Boston?” said Mrs. Gower, by way of beginning.
“Boston, my dear Mrs. Gower, is impossible. There used to be some originals, but now there are only left their country acquaintances, or their self-imposed biographers, who feebly seek to shine by their reflected light. Emerson might do, for the provinces; but Emerson’s country neighbors! Their society is one of ganaches and femmes précieuses—oh, such precious women!—of circles, coteries, and clubs, with every knowledge but the savoir faire and every science but the savoir vivre!”
“But,” said Mrs. Gower, “surely I have seen some very civilized Bostonians, at Newport, in the summer?”
“You have—like a stage procession,” said Wemyss with a smile. “And so, if you stand long enough in the window of the club there, and are fortunate, you may, of an afternoon, see Mrs. Weston’s carriage and footmen go down the hill; and perhaps, if you smoke another cigar and wait, you may be so happy as to see Mrs. Weston’s carriage and footmen going up the hill again. The rest of Boston drive in carry-alls.”
Mrs. Gower laughed. “Now I always thought it would be such a charming place to live in—so many celebrated people have been there—so many associations——”