My Mamie Rose was, as always, becomingly and properly gowned, and carried herself with a tact which fortified me against giving full reins to my temper.
Before entering the dining-room, the two freaks from the Bowery were made the centre of much curiosity. The men got around me, expecting to hear choice stories of a certain kind, which contrary to accepted ideas, are not original in the Bowery, but are brought there by these pioneers of refined civilization. Their faces fell when I proved a decided failure at that sort of story-telling.
While in their midst, I did not forget Mamie Rose, who was the centre of the female freak-hunters. I compared her poise, her naturalness, to the artificial sprightliness of the society ladies, and found it so admirable and sufficient, that I could well afford to laugh at the winks and sneers exchanged behind her back.
One old woman, who with her gray hair, made a reverential picture of old age, deliberately surveyed my Mamie Rose through her lorgnette, as if the sweetest girl there or elsewhere were an escaped beast from the jungle. I could not bear this and started toward my girl. But she felt my coming, turned to me and showed in her eye the competency to withstand the illy veiled sneers and insults of that horde of her sisters.
A few minutes before dinner was announced, I had an opportunity to entreat Mamie Rose to have us leave.
"I did not want to come, but now we are here and here we stay," was her spirited dictum.
The ceremonial style of the meal and the conversation during it impressed me very little. The emptiness, the superficiality and the desire to "show off" was too palpable. I had not then—or now—reached that altitude of social perfection to make a meal the most important function of my day's work. After we, the gentlemen, (I am afraid I was not included), had had our smoke and bout with the decanters, we joined the ladies in the drawing room. One of them had evidently been "laying for me," and captured me as soon as I entered. I was led to a settee and there we had a very, very serious talk.
She asked me this and she asked me that; if the dives were really as horrible as pictured; if it was quite safe to visit them; if I would consent to act as guide, for a generous compensation; if I had ever witnessed any "interesting" scenes down on the Bowery; and—spare me telling the rest.
My answers were not what were desired and, at last, I had a sample of frank truthfulness.
"Do you know, Mr. Kildare," said my resplendent companion, "you are a decided disappointment as a Bowery type, and not at all the entertaining chap we had been led to believe you to be."