“So it is, by Jove! Come on,” replied the gentlemanly Boosey, and they swept down the hall.
“Ah! ciel!” exclaimed a voice close by us—Kurz Pacha and I turned at the same moment. We beheld a gentleman twirling his moustache and a lady fanning. They were smiling intelligently at each other, and upon his whispering something that I could not hear, she said, “Fi! donc” and folding her fan and laying her arm upon his shoulder, they slid along again in the dance.
“Who is that?” inquired the Pacha.
“Don’t you know Mrs. Vite?” said I, glad of my chance. “Why, my dear sir, she is our great social success. She shows what America can do under a French regime. She performs for society the inestimable service of giving some reality to the pictures of Balzac and George Sand, by the quality of her life and manners. She is just what you would expect a weak American girl to be who was poisoned by Paris,—who mistook what was most obvious for what was most characteristic,—whose ideas of foreign society and female habits were based upon an experience of resorts, more renowned for ease than elegance,—who has no instinct fine enough to tell her that a lionne cannot be a lady,—who imitates the worst manners of foreign society, without the ability or opportunity of perceiving the best,—who prefers a double entendre to a bon-mot,—who courts the applause of men whose acquaintance gentlemen are careless of acknowledging,—who likes fast driving and dancing, low jokes, and low dresses, who is, therefore, bold without wit, noisy without mirth, and notorious without a desirable reputation. That is Mrs. Vite.”
Kurz Pacha rolled up his eyes.
“Good Jupiter! Miss Minerva,” cried he, “is this you that I hear? Why you are warmer in your denunciation of this little wisp of a woman than you ever were of fat old Madame Gorgon, with her prodigious paste diamonds. Really, you take it too hard. And you, too, who used to skate so nimbly over the glib surface of society, and cut such coquettish figures of eight upon the characters of your friends. You must excuse me, but it seems to me odd that Miss Minerva Tattle, who used to treat serious things so lightly, should now be treating light things so seriously. You ought to frequent the comic opera more, and dine with Mrs. Potiphar once a week. If your good humor can’t digest such a hors d’oeuvre as little Mrs. Vite, what will you do with such a pièce de résistance as Madame Gorgon?”
Odious plain speaker! Yet I like the man. But, before I could reply, up came another couple—Caroline Pettitoes and Norman de Famille.
“You were at the bowling-alley?” said he.
“Yes,” answered Caroline.
“You saw them together?”