Baby Nest survived her mother but a week. Her father married again, eighteen months afterward, a beautiful society girl with a tolerable fortune.
She said a good thing in my hearing the other night, which I offer here in the place of the conventional moral, my story having none.
“What have you been doing with yourself all the winter?” she asked of a fine-featured, dainty little old lady, whose blue blood adds nameless finish to the fair product of brains and breeding. “I have not seen you for an age.”
“I have gone out to few large assemblies this season,” said Queen Mab. “But I have greatly enjoyed certain conclaves of choice spirits, to which I have been admitted. Evenings with the Laurence Huttons, the Edmund Clarence Stedmans, the Brander Matthewses, and Mr. and Mrs. William Dean Howells are something to be remembered forever with pride and delight.”
“Ye-es?” the priceless lace on bust and sleeves swaying in the languid breeze of her fan. “I have heard others say that some of these Bohemians are really very, very nice—don’t you know?”[B]
THE END
FOOTNOTES:
[A] Literal report.
[B] A verbatim report.