“But, my dear, you know they are the thing,” said Mrs. Follingsbee: “people never like such things at first, and one must get used to high art before one forms a taste for it. The thing with her is, she has no docility. She does not try to enter into Charlie’s tastes.”
The woman with “no docility” entered at this moment,—a little snow-drop of a creature, with a pale, pure, Madonna face, and that sad air of hopeless firmness which is seen unhappily in the faces of so many women.
“I had to bring baby down,” she said. “I have no nurse to-day, and he has been threatened with croup.”
“The dear little fellow!” said Mrs. Follingsbee, with officious graciousness. “So glad you brought him down; come to his aunty?” she inquired lovingly, as the little fellow shrank away, and regarded her with round, astonished eyes. “Why will you not come to my next reception, Mrs. Ferrola?” she added. “You make yourself quite a stranger to us. You ought to give yourself some variety.”
“The fact is, Mrs. Follingsbee,” said Mrs. Ferrola, “receptions in New York generally begin about my bed-time; and, if I should spend the night out, I should have no strength to give to my children the next day.”
“I had to bring baby down.”
“But, my dear, you ought to have some amusement.”
“My children amuse me, if you will believe it,” said Mrs. Ferrola, with a remarkably quiet smile.
Mrs. Follingsbee was not quite sure whether this was meant to be sarcastic or not. She answered, however, “Well! your husband will come, at all events.”