"Miss Dearborn, promenading with that young man?"
"Why shouldn't she? He is quite distinguished in his appearance."
"Distinguished?" repeated Miss Framley, with a sneer. "I guess you don't know him."
"He isn't a cook, is he—or a waiter?"
"No; but he is a poor portrait painter. Why, he painted my picture for twenty dollars, and he was glad of the job," said Miss Framley, who was innately vulgar.
"Poor devil! Then he must have been hard up," said the gentleman, to whom it occurred that this was an illustration of Miss Framley's meanness.
"Oh, yes, he was poor enough; but I believe he is doing a little better now. Still, it is singular that Miss Dearborn should single him out as her escort from so many. I wouldn't promenade with him!" continued the young lady, tossing her head.
"I ought to feel flattered that you prefer me, Miss Framley."
"Oh, you are quite a different kind of person," said the young lady, with a coquettish smile.
There was another who saw the two pass him with equal disgust, and more dissatisfaction. This was Major Ashton.