“That’s the one I mean. How in the world did you get acquainted there?”
“I haven’t been long acquainted,” said our hero.
Alphonso Jones was a young man who, in England, would be called a tuft-hunter. He aspired to be on visiting terms in families of high social position; but thus far had not met with much success. This did not prevent him from boasting continually of intimacy in quarters where he was not even acquainted. He did not dream that his little imposture was easily seen through by most of those who knew him, but was complacent in the thought that he was classed with that aristocracy, which he admired from a distance.
“Don’t you know the Vivians, Mr. Jones?” asked Mr. Ingalls. “I thought you knew everybody that was worth knowing.”
“So I do,” said Alphonso, with an air of importance,—“that is, nearly everybody. I met the Vivians, I believe, at Saratoga, but did not have a chance to cultivate their acquaintance. Greyson, will you do me a favor?”
“What is it?” asked Gilbert.
“Let me accompany you this evening to Mr. Vivian’s. You can introduce me as your friend, in case they do not remember our former meeting.”
“I should like to oblige you, Mr. Jones,” said Gilbert, “but my own acquaintance is too limited to allow me to take such a liberty.”
“Just as you say, of course,” said Alphonso, crestfallen. “I dare say I shall soon meet them at some fashionable party.”
“So it will really not make much difference,” suggested Ingalls.