"Yes, indeed," assented the bejewelled lady she addressed. "I don't even like to think about it. I would like just to be able to draw my cheque for whatever I want and never hear the word money—like you, Mrs. Argand. But one can't do it," she sighed. "Why, my mail——"
"Why don't you do as I do?" demanded Mrs. Argand, who had no idea of having the conversation taken away from her in her own house. "My secretary opens all those letters and destroys them. I consider it a great impertinence for any one whom I don't know to write to me, and, of course, I don't acknowledge those letters. My agent——"
"My dear, we must go," said the lady nearest her to her companion. As the two ladies swept out they stopped near me to look at a picture, and one of them said to the other:
"Did you ever hear a more arrogant display in all your life? Her secretary! Her interest—her duties! As if we didn't all have them!"
"Yes, indeed. And her agent! That's my husband!"
"But I do think she was right about that man's pushing in——"
"Oh! yes, about that—she was, but she need not be parading her money before us. My husband made it for old Argand."
"My husband says the Argand Estate is vilely run, that they have the worst tenements in the city and charge the highest rents."
"Do you know that my husband is her—agent?"
"Is he? Why, to be sure; but of course, she is responsible."