"I notice that your Mrs. Floyd is beginning to be one; I've seen her in the papers two or three times."
"She doesn't like it, though; sometimes names get put on just to fill up. 'My dear Mrs. Floyd, we thought you wouldn't mind; you don't, do you?' they say. 'But my name in the papers,' she objects. 'You are too sensitive,' they reply. 'You've had your name in the papers at home,' her husband reminds her. 'Yes,' she answers, 'but—here!' She hates the town."
"Well, if I was a patroness I guess I'd have some say—no figure-head for me. I wouldn't be put on, either; I'd put the others on."
"I see you were cut out for a 'society' career."
"I guess you've about struck it. I went to a dance a week ago to-night—Periclean Pleasure Party."
"Like it?"
'Twa'n't much. And I was invited to a firemen's ball—such impudence!"
"Right—don't cheapen yourself."
"I guess I understand that."
Meanwhile a nooning of a different character was going on in the directors' room of the Underground. This is not to be taken as indicating that the green-baize plane of the long centre-table was littered with reports and memoranda, and that the high-backed, leather-seated chairs were filled with the solid figures of a dozen solid men. No; the aspect of the room was that of Sunday-like disoccupation, and the only people in it were an appealing young woman and a stubborn old man.