“Gringo,” I said, “some ladies often wrap truth all round with affectations, till it’s like a little lost soul in the centre of a big ball.”
“Then give me just plain women,” said the old dog sulkily.
“Norman,” Mrs. Bonstone was saying, “how would you like to give a ball. We’ve got to return some of the hospitality that’s been showered on us.”
“Poor kid master,” groaned Gringo, “he goes to those fool shows, and watches her dancing, and buttons and unbuttons his gloves, and chokes his yawns, and thinks he’s having a good time.”
Mr. Bonstone was speaking. “Stanna—you may give a ball, or a funeral, or anything you choose. I’ll foot the bill.”
She struck her gaudy heels together, and said nothing for a long time.
Her maid came in, laid a wonderful evening cloak on the back of a chair, and withdrew.
The sight of it seemed to irritate Mrs. Bonstone, for she frowned at it, and after a time, stretched out her hand, pulled the lovely cloak from the back of the chair near her, threw it over Gringo and me, and disdainfully tucked it round us with her foot.
Gringo was nearly dead with the heat of the fire, and as he wriggled out of the cloak, he muttered wrathfully, “Why don’t the boss give her a hauling over the coals? Down on the Bowery, she’d get it, and be the better for it. The way men fetch and carry for the ladies in the ‘aileet of the bowe mond,’ makes me sick!”