"Letters of introduction!" Clara sighed. "One can't help wishing they
were made misdemeanors like other lottery tickets." And this being her
third remark of kindred import, curiosity became at least excusable. So
Mrs. Penfield stroked a sable muff in silent sympathy.
"We had one yesterday from Jack's Boston aunt," went on her charming
hostess, "a Mrs. Bates, who is continually sending us spiritualists or
people who paint miniatures, or Armenian refugees, just because we spent
a week or so with her one summer when the children had the mumps. In
Lent one does not mind, one rather looks for trials, but now one's
dinner-table is really not one's own. Maude, do let me give you another
cup of tea; it's awfully bad, I know; we have to buy it from the Dunbar
girls. If one's friends would only not sell things one has to drink!"
"Such a delightful little tea-pot would make any tea delicious, I am
sure," murmured Mrs. Penfield, and the conversation rested while a
noiseless menial entered, put wood upon the fire, and illuminated an
electric bulb within an opalescent shell. An odor of cut flowers floated
in the air and an exotic whiff of muffin.
Mrs. Fessenden, when she had made the tea, sank back once more among the
cushions and stretched her small feet to the blaze.
"I am not at home, Pierre," she announced.
"Perfectly, Madame," replied the menial, as though the absence were
self-evident.
Mrs. Penfield mused and sipped.
"Some women are so inconsiderate when they are old," she said
remindingly.
"And so are most men when they are young," rejoined the lady of the
cushions, "and Jack, though nice in many ways, is no exception. When I
ask him to help by having unexpected men who must be fed to luncheon at
the club, he says champagne at midday gives him apoplexy. And so we have
to invite an unknown person to our very nicest dinner."
"What unknown person?" inquired Mrs. Penfield, and Clara sighed.
"A Mr. Hopworthy," she replied. "Fancy, if you can, a man named
Hopworthy."
Mrs. Penfield tried and failed.
"What is he like?" she asked.
"I haven't an idea. He called here yesterday at three o'clock--fancy a
man who calls at three o'clock! and Jack insisted on inviting him for
to-morrow night--and I had to give so much thought to to-morrow night!"
"Of course he is coming," put in Mrs. Penfield; "such people never send
regrets."
"Or acceptances either, it would seem," returned her friend; "the
wretch has not so much as answered, and soon it will be too late to get
even an emergency girl."
"Oh, one can always scare up a girl," the other said consolingly.
Pierre entered with a little silver tray.
"A note, if Madame pleases," he announced. Perhaps had Madame pleased a
pineapple or a guinea-pig might have been forthcoming. When he had
retired, Madame tore open the envelope. A flush of pleasure made her
still more charming.
"Hopworthy has been seriously injured!" she cried almost in exultation.
"And how much anxiety you have had for nothing, dear!" said Mrs.
Penfield, rising. "So often things turn out much better than we dare to
hope. What does he say?"
"Oh, only this; he writes abominably," and Clara read: