“Realist!” laughed Hubbard, “why he does not know enough about the actual world to be competent to purchase a family horse. He’s a capital fellow, good and true and kind-hearted, but what does he know about affairs? He doesn’t even know how to flatter women!”
“How absurd!” exclaimed little Mrs. Philpot, but Hubbard could not be sure for the life of him just what she meant the expression to characterize.
“And you like Mr. Howells?” she inquired.
“Like him! everybody likes him,” he cordially said.
“Well, you are quite different from Miss Crabb. She hates Maurice Thompson for putting her into a story.”
“Oh, well,” said Hubbard, indifferently, “women are not like men. They take life more seriously. If Thompson had had more experience he would not have tampered with a newspaper woman. He’s got the whole crew down on him. Miss Stackpole hates him almost as fiercely as she hates Henry James.”
“I don’t blame her,” exclaimed Mrs. Philpot, “it’s mean and contemptible for men to caricature women.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” yawned Hubbard, “it all goes in a lifetime.”
At this opportune moment Miss Crabb and Miss Stackpole joined them, coming arm in arm. Miss Crabb looking all the more sallow and slender in comparison with the plump, well-fed appearance of her companion.