"Why, yes, but I think it just happens, doesn't it? You cannot make it happen. It is like courtesy, or spirituality, it results from everything in you, your whole habit of life and thought."
"Does it? I thought it was something you went after, and got," said Jerry.
"Like a box of sweets," she smiled.
"Like a box of sweets, and then you ran the risk of stomachache."
"I call that satisfaction, not happiness."
"What is happiness to you, Jane?"
"A miracle," she evaded.
From the very first, the days at home were a success. It is difficult to say just what constitutes hospitality. One hostess accomplishes it without effort; another, with the same material equipment, fails utterly. Jane managed it. There was an air of distinction, which in no way interfered with the comfort and informality of her guests. At most studio teas, people smoke, and loll about, but there was no hint of Bohemianism, in that sense of the word, at Jane's parties.
Mrs. Brendon always came, bringing her friends with her. Martin Christiansen brought all the distinguished men and women who came to New York during the winter to the Paxtons. It was noised about that you always met famous people there, so the popularity of the stable-studio was established.
One afternoon found an English poet, a French actress, and a prominent opera singer among their guests. Jerry watched Jane handle them with interest. She took them as a matter of course, saw that they met the people who would entertain them. She treated them like human beings, not like exhibitions.