V. — THE POTIPHARS IN PARIS.
A LETTER FROM MISS CAROLINE PETTITOES TO MRS. SETTUM DOWNE.
PARIS, October.
MY DEAR MRS. DOWNE,—Here we are at last! I can hardly believe it. Our coming was so sudden that it seems like a delightful dream. You know at Mrs. Potiphar’s supper last August in Newport, she was piqued by Gauche Boosey’s saying, in his smiling, sarcastic way:
“What! do you really think this is a pretty supper? Dear me! Mrs. Potiphar, you ought to see one of our petits soupers in Paris, hey Croesus?” and then he and Mr. Timon Croesus lifted their brows knowingly, and smiled, and glanced compassionately around the table.
“Paris, Paris!” cried Mrs. Potiphar; “you young men are always talking about Paris, as if it were heaven. Oh! Mr. P., do take me to Paris. Let’s make up a party, and slip over. It’s so easy now, you know. Come, come, Pot. I know you won’t deny me. Just for two or three months, The truth is,” said she, turning to D’Orsay Firkin, who wore that evening the loveliest shirt-bosom I ever saw, “I want to send home some patterns of new dresses to Minerva Tattle.”
They all laughed, and in the midst Kurz Pacha, who was sitting at the side of Mrs. Potiphar, inquired:
“What colors suit the Indian summer best, Mrs. Potiphar?”
“Well, a kind of misty color,” said Boosey, laughingly, and emphasizing missed, as if he meant some pun upon the word.