Mrs. Radigan, of course, is delighted. Mrs. Radigan has cause to be pleased. She has become a personage. She is being gossiped about in the most outlandish fashion, much to her own amusement and the indignation of J. John, who always was slow-witted and not ready to appraise things at their real value. For instance, Radigan was in a towering rage when a weekly journal that chronicles the doings of the smart set hinted broadly that Mrs. Radigan was engaged to marry J. Madison Mudison as soon as she had cleared away the present matrimonial barriers by visiting South Dakota. Moreover, it was said that the husband had already found consolation and was acquiescing in the arrangement, as it was long known that he had been making eyes at Miss Ethel Bumpschus. The purest fiction! Radigan and his wife are the most devoted pair imaginable, and even if it were the smart thing to do, I cannot conceive their separating, particularly if Radigan's winnings in such an arrangement were to be Miss Bumpschus. The story was, of course, promptly denied and put to sleep, but it serves to show the high place my friends at present fill in the public eye. Radigan was brought to this view and cooled down, but it required some diplomacy to soothe the ruffled feelings of Miss Bumpschus. A check for $5,000 for her pet charity, the Home for Aged Elevated Ticket-choppers, acted as a balm, and to show that she bore no ill-will against her fellow-sufferers she gave a dinner-dance in honor of Miss Veal.
And this was but one of about fifteen "things" given for the girl in the past week. Mrs. Plumstone Smith, Miss Bobbie Williegilt, and Mrs. Lenox Mint all gave her luncheons; Miss Wherry and J. Madison Mudison gave her theatre-parties; the Dewberry Lambs a dance. Besides, she has been kept jumping from house to house every afternoon to meet people who have been asked to meet her. Then she has been asked to act as bridesmaid at eleven weddings in the near future, and it will take no small part of her income for the year, large though it is, to buy gowns and hats for these joyous affairs, which will vary in shade from pink to saffron. Poor Miss Veal! My heart goes out to her.
I was favored with an invitation to the dinner preceding the Bumpschus dance, and had the honor of sitting between Miss Ethel and the Countess Poglioso Spinnigini, an arrangement which I suspected was effected by Bertie Bumpschus in revenge for my taking his place at the Radigan table last week. I talked to the Countess in English, French, German, and Italian till my head ached, then turned her over to the guileless J. Madison Mudison at her other side. But Mudison is an old campaigner. He did not try to entertain the fair Italian at all, but let her talk to him, occasionally breaking into her flow of jargon with the French expressions he had picked up at the bridge-table. How I admired him! He is a man of tact.
Meantime I was in the hands of Miss Bumpschus discussing the needs of the aged ticket-choppers, and covertly watching Miss Veal down the table having an awfully good time. She was seated between old Mr. Bumpschus and Dewberry Lamb, talking out to them a few thoughts that I had talked into her the day before concerning the great novel of the week. Mr. Bumpschus showed his deep interest by eying her over the top of his upraised glass and exclaiming, "Ah! Indeed!" at proper intervals, and when she had exhausted him she turned to Dewberry Lamb and said, "I was just telling Mr. Bumpschus," etc. "How intensely interesting!" exclaimed Mr. Lamb. "Indeed!"
Blessed is the tobacco habit at times like this! When the women had gone, I had an opportunity to soothe my nerves with a strong cigar and relieve the pressure of thought upon my brain by discussing stocks and real-estate with Madison Mudison. He also talked entertainingly about the invasion of upper Fifth Avenue by tradesmen. It was with regret that I left him to get down to the business of dancing.
Dancing is the strangest of diversions. It is a curious relic of barbarity. To glide over a glassy floor, a beautiful girl on your arm, to the strains of some dreamy waltz, sweeping around and around, free and fearless, that is one thing, but not the real. To go bumping and thumping through a maze of a hundred hopping and skipping and kicking men and women, to have your feet tramped on, to tangle them up in meshy trains, to have elbows poked into your eye, to strain your sight hunting for vacant places—is that pleasure? I waited in line a half-hour for the opportunity to take Miss Veal twice around the room. My collar was gone, my shirt front caved in, but waiting had given me rest. When she came staggering up she was on the point of collapse, her hair was awry, she was panting for air, and seemed to be wobbling on her legs, but when I handed her a paper parasol she said "Whew!" long drawn, and away we went. Miss Bumpschus stepped on my heel, Bobbie Williegilt's toe caught in the lace trimming of Miss Veal's gown and we had to stop in the most dangerous spot while I gathered up the trailing yards of it, at the peril of being bowled over at any minute. Miss Speechless rammed a paper parasol into my ear, and a near-sighted stag rushing onto the floor for the hand of Miss Mint jumped heavily on my partner's foot, crushing her diamond buckle. But we got twice around. She said it was lovely.
"I am almost dead," she gasped. "I've been having such an awfully good time."
With that she passed into the hands of the next man in that devoted row awaiting her, and was whirled from sight in the dancing maelstrom.
Yet man prides himself on being a reasoning creature.