Her sister cut her short with a sigh.
"That will do for the present, dear," she said sweetly.
Then she gazed into the depths of her tea just as I had seen Plumstone Smith do at the club. Poor Mrs. Radigan!
My Dinner to Miss Pearl Veal
I gave a delightful little dinner in my rooms the other evening in honor of my fiancée, Miss Pearl Veal. Of course there were some hitches, but they were such as are likely to occur in any similar affair in a bachelor room-hold, so altogether it was a success. The company was limited by the size of my study, but I managed to get together a thoroughly interesting and congenial crowd of people. Radigan could not come, as there was an important meeting of the vestry of St. Edward's to devise ways and means of redecorating the rectory, but J. Madison Mudison took his place at the last minute, after telephoning to Miss Bumpschus that he had been called suddenly out of town and could not go to the opera with them. Mrs. Radigan chaperoned, and, besides Miss Veal, the Countess Poglioso Spinnigini and Mrs. Bobbie Q. Williegilt were there, and with Bobbie Q., Arthur Slaughterblock-Jones, and myself we just had elbow-room at the table.
Slaughterblock-Jones was the only new-comer and doubtful quantity. He is from Chicago, but having made a fortune in the formation and collapse of the United States Stove-lifter Company, he has hyphenated his name, moved to New York, and is living at the Ping-pong Club. I must say his acquaintance has hitherto been limited to rather queer people, but as he has given me some useful tips in the market, I thought I would show my appreciation by letting him have an opportunity to meet a few of the smart set. He really did fairly well, and his stories, fresh from the woolly West, were an agreeable change from the worn jokes of Mr. Mudison. Mrs. Radigan has taken him up, and has sent him an invitation to the Indian ball, with which the new house is to be opened. But, of course, he had to make some bad breaks. When he had sent us all off into convulsions over his anecdote about the Irishman and the life-insurance agent, he had to be reminded of another which he had heard at the Van Rundouns. Of all the people in the world to mention! Turning to Mrs. Williegilt he asked her if, by the way, she knew the Van Rundouns, and she replied that she believed they at one time had a place next hers in Westchester, but she did not know them. She said it very quietly, but so firmly that he should have understood. He did not. He had to go blundering on, talking familiarly—I might almost say boastingly—of those queer friends of his. He did not seem to realize that these were the swells of yesterday; that they no longer stirred the social sea. For a moment I was in a panic lest he ask Mrs. Radigan if she knew the Van Rundouns, and I had to break in and ask Mr. Mudison to propound the riddle he had given me the day before when we happened to meet on the avenue.
But I am getting into the middle of the dinner before even the soup. To begin with, my rooms looked charmingly cosey. I had taken down the overflow of real-estate maps from my office and the pictures I got in Paris and put in their places some sporting prints and a dozen or so photographs of Pearl Veal. Stalk looked after everything. He is my new man, for it seemed to me that I was justified in having him when I was soon to marry four millions, and he looked so extremely well that Mrs. Radigan, thinking he was a man she had met somewhere, bowed most familiarly to him when she came in. The Countess thought he was Mr. Williegilt, and to avoid further trouble I had to whisper to him to stand in the hall till everybody arrived.