“Very. Did you give her one of the choruses or a bit of Agamemnon, as you did when you described it to me?” asked Rose, keeping sober with difficulty as she recalled that serio-comic scene.
“Of course not, but I was advising her to read Prometheus when she gaped behind her fan and began to talk about Phebe. What a 'nice creature' she was, 'kept her place,' dressed according to her station, and that sort of twaddle. I suppose it was rather rude, but being pulled up so short confused me a bit, and I said the first thing that came into my head, which was that I thought Phebe the best-dressed woman in the room because she wasn't all fuss and feathers like most of the girls.”
“Oh, Mac! That to Emma, who makes it the labor of her life to be always in the height of fashion and was particularly splendid that night. What did she say?” cried Rose, full of sympathy for both parties.
“She bridled and looked daggers at me.”
“And what did you do?”
“I bit my tongue and tumbled out of one scrape into another. Following her example, I changed the subject by talking about the charity concert for the orphans, and when she gushed about the 'little darlings,' I advised her to adopt one and wondered why young ladies didn't do that sort of thing, instead of cuddling cats and lapdogs.”
“Unhappy boy! Her pug is the idol of her life, and she hates babies,” said Rose.
“More fool she! Well, she got my opinion on the subject, anyway, and she's very welcome, for I went on to say that I thought it would not only be a lovely charity, but excellent training for the time when they had little darlings of their own. No end of poor things die through the ignorance of mothers, you know,” added Mac, so seriously that Rose dared not smile at what went before.
“Imagine Emma trotting round with a pauper baby under her arm instead of her cherished Toto,” said Steve with an ecstatic twirl on the stool.
“Did she seem to like your advice, Monsieur Malapropos?” asked Rose, wishing she had been there.