“Oh, very little,” said Mr. Jones, nonchalantly. “I thought perhaps Mr. Greyson might like the company of one who was used to society. I think, on the whole, I will call on my friends, the Montmorencys, this evening.”
“Where do they live, Mr. Jones?” asked Mr. Ingalls.
“They occupy an elegant mansion on Fifth Avenue,” answered Alphonso, consequentially.
“Couldn’t you take me along with you?” asked Mr. Ingalls, demurely.
“I fear not,” said Alphonso. “The fact is, Mr. Ingalls, the Montmorencys are very exclusive, and have expressly said to me more than once, ‘We are always glad to have you drop in, Mr. Jones, for we look upon you as one of ourselves; but bring no strangers. Our circle is already extensive, and we cannot add to it.’ Very sorry, of course.”
“So am I, Mr. Jones,” said Mr. Ingalls. “I should like to know a few high-toned people. How fortunate you are in knowing so many! What is the number of the Montmorencys’ house?”
“I always forget numbers,” said Alphonso, rather confused (for the whole story of the Montmorencys was a fiction), “but, of course, the house is familiar to me. It’s on Murray Hill.”
“That fellow is a humbug, Gilbert,” said Ingalls, as he and his room-mate entered their own apartment. “He pretends to have a great many fashionable friends; but it’s all a sham. Some day I’m going to teach him a lesson.”
“How?”
“Introduce a friend of mine, a good amateur actor, as a French count. Fancy his delight at making each an aristocratic acquaintance!”