“I don't suppose she's ashamed of her nose—”
“Olive!” cried her friend, “be still! Why, I can't bear it! Why, you wretched thing!”
“I dare say all the ladies in Equity make up their own carpets, and put them down, and she thought you were laughing at her.”
“Will you be still, Olive Halleck?” Miss Kingsbury was now a large, blonde mass of suffering, “Oh, dear, dear! What shall I do? It was sacrilege—yes, it was nothing less than sacrilege—to go on as I did. And I meant so well! I did so admire, and respect, and revere her!” Olive burst out laughing. “You wicked girl!” whimpered Clara. “Should you—should you write to her?”
“And tell her you didn't mean her nose? Oh, by all means, Clara,—by all means! Quite an inspiration. Why not make her an evening party?”
“Olive,” said Clara, with guilty meekness, “I have been thinking of that.”
“No, Clara! Not seriously!” cried Olive, sobered at the idea.
“Yes, seriously. Would it be so very bad? Only just a little party,” she pleaded. “Half a dozen people or so; just to show them that I really feel—friendly. I know that he's told her all about meeting me here, and I'm not going to have her think I want to drop him because he's married, and lives in a little house on Clover Street.”
“Noble Clara! So you wish to bring them out in Boston society? What will you do with them after you've got them there?” Miss Kingsbury fidgeted in her chair a little. “Now, look me in the eye, Clara! Whom were you going to ask to meet them? Your unfashionable friends, the Hallecks?”
“My friends, the Hallecks, of course.”