I don’t quite know how Mrs. Loring came to pick the Gibsons up. They
were not what Carrie termed “quite nice people”; in what respect it was
easy to see and difficult to say. Their jewellery was unexceptionable,
and barely ostentatious; their manners passed the presentation standard,
if falling a little short in the nicer requirements of the
_tête-à-tête_. They did not offend in the matter of “Mr.” and “Esq.,”
but sniffed somewhat of “R. S. V. P.” Mrs. Gibson, too, insisted on the
forms of chaperonage in a way that was rather more than a passing bow to
custom, and which suggested the possibility of her having learned the
necessity in a different school from that of Mrs. Loring Chatterton.
They had money.
“What do you think of the Gibsons, Rol?” Carrie had said to me; “_I_
don’t like them.”
“I would rather introduce them to my relatives than to my friends,” I
replied.
It was pretty evident to me after a short acquaintance with the Gibsons
that they were disposed to make much of me. Carrie noticed the same
thing, and spoke her mind on the subject with the freedom of engaged
youth.
“Mrs. Gibson’s a horrid woman, Rol, and it’s my opinion she wants you to
marry Miss Gibson.”
“Caroline,” I replied, “I applaud your concern, yet cannot blame Mrs.
Gibson. She can see virtue where others see but corpulence. Besides, I
consider Miss Gibson rather pretty.”
“I’m sure she’s not pretty,” retorted Caroline, and proceeded to
enlighten me on matters interesting and feminine.
Mamma played the only game she knew very skilfully. Her only mistake was
in the inapplicability of the means, which was not her fault. Indeed, I
feel almost apologetically responsible myself, seeing the line worked so
thoroughly, and mused instructively on the devotion of a mother to her
child’s prospects.
Miss Gibson was accomplished, and expensively finished. As I had
remarked to Carrie, she was decidedly pretty, and would talk Ibsen to
you with her face in profile. She displayed an obtrusive girlhood that
was not always as modest as its intention, and this pose of maidenhood
in bud was apparently the one designed to net me.
Mrs. Gibson gave a _musicale_, to which I persuaded Carrie with
difficulty. She had evidently talked things over with Mrs. Loring, for
that lady appeared also, and I was greatly gratified at the concern with
which they watched me. I decided to give them all the entertainment they
desired. They talked with an obvious intention of interesting me and
keeping me apart from Miss Gibson. I was surprised to see so little
strategy in a married woman.
Miss Gibson was running a risk of palsying her hand in a vibrant
mandolin solo, and producing music suggestive of the dotted line of a
wheel-pen. I heard Carrie whisper to Mrs. Loring something about “St.
Vitus’s Waltz,” for which I reproved her, considering whose house she
was in. I then addressed Mrs. Loring.
“Somehow, Mrs. Loring,” I said, “one thinks more of English maidenhood
as one advances in life. There is something in the unsophisticated
rosebud----”
Mrs. Loring nodded significantly, implying there was a good deal in the
unsophisticated rosebud, but I waited my time; I had a bolt in store for
her.
Miss Gibson had finished the solo in a tinsel diminuendo, the intent of
which was to enchain the soul a while longer in the regions to which it
had been raised. I rose and crossed over to her. She was untangling
herself from a mesh of coloured mandolin ribbons that _would_ catch in
the ruching of her corsage.
“They’re _such_ a nuisance, Mr. Butterfield; I shall cut them off, I
think.”
I smiled at the unintentional suggestion, and assisted her in the
extrication, glancing across at Mrs. Loring’s disapproving face. Miss
Gibson sat down and made room for me beside her. She twined the mandolin
ribbons among her fingers, and Mrs. Gibson moved further away.
“Are you leaving town soon, Mr. Butterfield?” inquired the
unsophisticated rosebud engagingly.
It was a better opening than I had looked for; I took advantage of it.
“I had meditated going down into the country for a little fishing
shortly,” I replied; “probably in a week or two.”
“You are fond of fishing, are you not, Mr. Butterfield?” she inquired,
tying a knot in a red ribbon.
“It’s a pleasure,” I answered, “as much of the mind as of the body. I
know of nothing more exciting than the suspense of the first nibble. The
angler, male or female, has peculiar joys and fears of which the layman
knows nothing.”
“Oh, I should _so_ love it!” replied Miss Gibson, glancing down at a
small shoe that protruded from the lacy hem of her skirts. I followed
her glance, and knew in my soul that Mrs. Loring and Carrie were
watching me.
“The first nibble taken,” I continued, warming to my work, “all the
_finesse_ of playing your victim commences. There is a wide difference
between hooking your fish and landing him. He must be humoured and
coaxed, or you lose him, bait and all.”