“I’m distressed that I didn’t call on her,” said the hostess; “but they went away suddenly. My dear, I wonder if they really did encounter the young man here?”
“Pshaw!” said the husband, softly, smiling and shaking his head, and turned the conversation.
In time it settled down with something like earnestness for a few minutes upon a subject which the rich find it easy to discuss without the least risk of undue warmth. It was about the time when one of the graciously murmuring mulattoes was replenishing the glasses, that remark in some way found utterance to this effect,—that the company present could congratulate themselves on living in a community where there was no poor class.
“Poverty, of course, we see; but there is no misery, or nearly none,” said the ambitious son of the host.
Dr. Sevier differed with him. That was one of the Doctor’s blemishes as a table guest: he would differ with people.
“There is misery,” he said; “maybe not the gaunt squalor and starvation of London or Paris or New York; the climate does not tolerate that,—stamps it out before it can assume dimensions; but there is at least misery of that sort that needs recognition and aid from the well-fed.”
The lady who had been beautiful so many years had somewhat to say; the physician gave attention, and she spoke:—
“If sister Jane were here, she would be perfectly triumphant to hear you speak so, Doctor.” She turned to the hostess, and continued: “Jane is quite an enthusiast, you know; a sort of Dorcas, as husband says, modified and readapted. Yes, she is for helping everybody.”
“Whether help is good for them or not,” said the lady’s husband, a very straight and wiry man with a garrote collar.
“It’s all one,” laughed the lady. “Our new rector told her plainly, the other day, that she was making a great mistake; that she ought to consider whether assistance assists. It was really amusing. Out of the pulpit and off his guard, you know, he lisps a little; and he said she ought to consider whether ‘aththithtanth aththithtth.’”