The Elder repeated these soft appellations to himself. Then he asked:
“What do they do with themselves? Why have I never met them in the world?”
“For the excellent reason that they don’t go. They know no one. They see the dressmaker and a few other Americans, and basta.”
“Ah! There must be something queer!” burst out the Elder. “You haven’t told me all. Otherwise how could they help not knowing everybody and going everywhere?”
The Younger let out an exaggerated sigh.
“That is precisely what I have been trying to explain to you,” he answered. “But it is true,” he added; “I haven’t told you all.”
“Ah, I knew! What is it?” The Elder was hectic in his eagerness.
“Well,” replied the Younger, looking for his effect, “Susannah is one of your literary ladies. She writes a novel. Not novels, you understand, but a novel. Some ladies keep house. Other ladies embroider tea-cloths. A few occupy themselves with dogs, or reforms. Susannah writes a novel. She is a portentous blue-stocking.”
“Blue stocking! On that leg! Never!” exploded the Elder. “I would give a thousand francs to know her!”
The Younger regarded his companion quizzically.