"And the one you this instant bowed to?"
"You mean the one who bowed to me." For Mrs. Rhodes had leaned completely out of her box, and had then looked both right and left to observe whether her neighbors had done full justice to the episode. "Oh, she's a good little woman who is—climbing.
"The fact is," Mrs. Bates proceeded, "that there are not a dozen real grown-up butterflies in town. We're coming to one now." They were skirting one range of the lower boxes. "It's Mrs. Ingles; you must meet her."
"Some other time, please," implored Brower, as Mrs. Bates nodded to a sumptuous young creature not ten feet away.
"Very well." Mrs. Bates shrugged her shoulders "Yes," she proceeded, presently, "Cecilia Ingles and her immediate set are about the only real butterflies we have. However, I'm going to take her in hand pretty soon and make a good, earnest woman of her."
"There is work for them all," said Brower.
"But don't let's be too serious just now," rejoined Mrs. Bates in friendly caution.
"Who was that young man you had with you last night?" somebody demanded of her next day.
"Mr. Brower."
"Who is Mr. Brower, may I ask?"