"I wish somebody would call," had been repeated again and again in every note of ennui, beginning in impatience and ending in despair.
Mr. Fairchild grew angry. His pride was hurt. He looked upon himself as especially wronged by his neighbor Ashfield. The people opposite, too—"who were they, that the Ashfields were so intimate with them? The Hamiltons! Why he could buy them over and over again! Hamilton's income was nothing."
At last Mrs. Fairchild took a desperate resolution, "Why should not we call first? We'll never get acquainted in this way," which declaration Mr. Fairchild could not deny. And so she dressed one morning in her finest and drove round with a pack of cards.
Somehow she found every body "out." But that was not much, for, to tell the truth, her heart did beat a little at the idea of entering strange drawing-rooms and introducing herself, and she would be sure to be at home when they returned her calls; and that would be less embarrassing, and suit her views quite as well.
In the course of a few days cards were left in return.
"But, Lawrence, I told you to say I was at home." said Mrs. Fairchild, impatiently, as the servant handed her half a dozen cards.
"I did, ma'am," he replied.
"You did," she said, "then how is this?"
"I don't know, ma'am," he replied, "but the foot-man gave me the cards and said all was right."
Mrs. Fairchild flushed and looked disconcerted.