“Kurz Pacha,” said I, “I wonder who sent Ada Aiguille that bouquet?”
“Sir John Franklin, I presume,” returned he.
“What do you mean by that,” asked I. — Before he could answer, Boosey and Mrs. Potiphar stopped by us.
“No, no, Mr. Boosey,” panted Mrs. P., “I will not have him introduced. They say his father actually sells dry goods by the yard in Buffalo.”
“Well, but he doesn’t, Mrs. Potiphar.
“I know that, and it’s all very well for you young men to know him, and to drink, and play billiards, and smoke, with him. And he is handsome to be sure, and gentlemanly, and I am told, very intelligent. But, you know, we can’t be visiting our shoemakers and shopmen. That’s the great difficulty of a watering-place, one doesn’t know who’s who. Why Mrs. Gnu was here three summers ago, and there sat next to her, at table, a middle-aged foreign gentleman, who had only a slight accent, and who was so affable and agreeable, so intelligent and modest, and so perfectly familiar with all kinds of little ways, you know, that she supposed he was the Russian Minister, who, she heard, was at Newport incognito for his health. She used to talk with him in the parlor, and allowed him to join her upon the piazza. Nobody could find out who he was. There were suspicions, of course. But he paid his bills, drove his horses, and was universally liked. Dear me! appearances are so deceitful! who do you think he was?”
“I’m sure I can’t imagine.”
“Well, the next spring she went to a music store in Philadelphia, to buy some guitar strings for Claribel, and who should advance to sell them but the Russian Minister! Mrs. Gnu said she colored—”
“So I’ve always understood,” said Gauche, laughing.
“Fie! Mr. Boosey,” continued Mrs. P. smiling. “But the music-seller didn’t betray the slightest consciousness. He sold her the strings, received the money, and said nothing, and looked nothing. Just think of it! She supposed him to be a gentleman, and he was really a music-dealer. You see that’s the sort of thing one is exposed to here, and though your friend may be very nice, it isn’t safe for me to know him. In a country where there’s no aristocracy one can’t be too exclusive. Mrs. Peony says she thinks that in future she shall really pass the summer in a farm-house or if she goes to a watering-place, confine herself to her own rooms and her carriage, and look at the people through the blinds. I’m afraid, myself, it’s coming to that. Everybody goes to Saratoga now, and you see how Newport is crowded. For my part I agree with the Rev. Cream Cheese, that there are serious evils in a republican form of government. What a hideous head-dress that is of Mrs. Settum Downe’s! What a lovely polka-redowa!”