“Seems to me you’ve ‘picked up’ since lunch time,” observed that lady, in her customary muffled tones.
“I do feel better,” said Mrs. Stratton, unable to cease bowing, although in conversation with her friend. “So you were at poor Cornelia’s little affair? Do tell me how it went off.”
“Six courses—three wines—the whole thing served by Simonson—couldn’t have been better done,” answered Mrs. Grindstone, lightly.
“Simonson?” The shot had gone home.
“Mr. Bludgeon was most agreeable. He particularly noticed the table service, and seemed so pleased,” went on Mrs. Grindstone, who had a long score to settle. “But hush! Here he comes. What do you suppose he is going to read?”
“Didn’t you see the program?” asked Annetta in a chilly tone. “It was settled with me, by letter. In fact I selected the extracts from his own works, and it will be sure to be satisfactory to all.”
We pass over the somewhat subduing effect upon a large mixed audience, alien to him by birth and training, of the Englishman’s recital of his own gems of thought. The usual frost accompanying this species of entertainment was deepened while his tragic scenes and interludes were rehearsed successively. Some members of the Club were rash enough to whisper between themselves that the entertainment wasn’t worth the appropriation from their treasury required to meet its cost.
During the “tea” with introductions, that followed, Mrs. Stratton again rose to the occasion. As the fairy godmother of Genius she was immense. But Genius remained from first to last unsmiling. Life was real, life was earnest to him during that episode of American homage.