The Potiphar Papers

by George William Curtis

On the other hand, Daisy Clover is a girl of good sense enough to know—even if she didn’t know it by instinct—that men in public places like the prestige of association with persons of acknowledged social position, which, by hook or by crook, Mrs. Peony undoubtedly enjoys. Therefore, to be of Mrs. P.‘s party is to be well placed in the catalogue—the chances are fairer—the gain is surer. Upon seeing Daisy Clover with quiet little Mrs. Clover, or plain old aunt Honeysuckle,—people would inquire, Who are the Clovers? And no one would know. But to be with Mrs. Peony, morning, noon, and night, is to answer all questions of social position.

But, unhappily, in the city things are changed. There no attraction is necessary but the fine house, gay parties, and understood rank of Mrs. Peony to draw men to Miss Rosa’s side. In Newport it does very well not to dance with her. But in the city it doesn’t do not to be at Mrs. Peony’s ball. Who knows it so well as that excellent lady? Therefore darling Daisy is dropped a little when we all return.

“Sweet girl,” Mrs. P. says, “really a delightful companion for Rosa in the summer, and the father and mother are such nice, excellent people. Not exactly people that one knows, to be sure—but Miss Daisy is really amiable and quite accomplished.”

Daisy goes to an occasional party at the Peonys. But at the opera and the theatre, and at the small intimate parties of Rosa and her friends, the darling Daisy of Newport is not visible. However, she has her little revenges. She knows the Peonys well: and can talk intelligently about them, which puts her quite on a level with them in the estimation of her own set. She rules in the lower sphere if not in the higher, and Daisy Clover is in the way of promotion. Yes, and if she be very rich, and papa and mamma are at all presentable, or if they can be dexterously hushed up, there is no knowing but Miss Daisy Clover will suddenly bloom upon the world as Mrs. P.‘s daughter-in-law, wife of that “gentlemanly” young man, Mr. Puffer Peony.

Naturally it pains me very much to be obliged to think so of the people with whom I associate. But I suppose they are as good as any. As Kurz Pacha says: “If I fly from a Chinaman because he wears his hair long like a woman, I must equally fly the Frenchman because he shaves his like a lunatic. The story of Jack Spratt is the apologue of the world.” It is astonishing how intimate he is with our language and literature. By-the-bye, that Polly Potiphar has been mean enough to send out to Paris for the very silk that I relied upon as this summer’s cheval de bataille, and has just received it superbly made up. The worst of it is that it is just the thing for her. She wore it at the hall the other night, and expected to have crushed me, in mine. Not she! I have not summered it at Newport for—well, for several years, for nothing, and although I am rather beyond the strict white muslin age, I thought I could yet venture a bold stroke. So I arrayed à la Daisy Clover—not too much, pas trop jeune. And awaited the onset.

Kurz Pacha saw me across the room, and came up, with his peculiar smile. He did not look at my dress, but he said to me, rather wickedly, looking at my bouquet:

“Dear me! I hardly hoped to see spring flowers so late in the summer.”

Then he raised his eyes to mine, and I am conscious that I blushed.

“It’s very warm. You feel very warm, I am sure, my dear Miss Tattle,” he continued, looking straight at my face.

“You are sufficiently cool, at least, I think,” replied I. — “Naturally,” said he, “for I’ve been in the immediate vicinity of the boreal pole for half an hour—a neighborhood in which, I am told, even the most ardent spirits sometimes freeze—so you must pardon me if I am more than usually dull, Miss Minerva.”