Mrs. M. Well, I’m glad on’t. Now girls, look here, I’ve made an assignment with Munseer What’s-his-name to-night.
Eva. A what?
Ida. Assignment? You mean an appointment.
Mrs. M. Well, it’s all the same. I’m going to learn to do that dipper thing, if I die for it.
Eva. I don’t understand.
Ida. She means The Boston Dip.
Mrs. M. That’s it—where you go tipping about, while the fiddlers play Struse’s Beautiful Blue Dan-u-by.
Eva. You, mother, learn to waltz!
Mrs. M. And why not? There’s Mrs. What’s-her-name gets through it, and she’s older and heavier than I. I’m going to learn it. What’s the use of having money if you can’t spin round like other folks. But don’t say a word to your father. Bless me, how he would roar! But he’s safe at home, snoozing in his chair by this time. I’ve arranged it all. I’ve engaged this drawing-room for my own party, and when you’re all dancing in the hall, Munseer A—A—what’s-his-name will slip in here, and practice the waltz with me, and nobody will know anything about it until I’m deficient.
Ida. Proficient, mother.