(_Miss Armstrong replies on a dull blue, canvas-textured page, over
which her stub-pen wanders in fashionable negligence. She arrives on
the third page at the matter in hand_.)
Ah, it was very sweet, your literary love-letter. Considerable style,
as you would say, but too palpably artificial. If you want to deceive
this woman, my dear sir trifler, you must disguise your mockery more
artfully.
Why didn't I find you at the Stanwoods'? I had Nettie send you a card.
I had promised you to a dozen delightful women, "our choicest lot," who
were all agog to see my supercilious and dainty sir.... Why will you
always play with things? Perhaps you will say because I am not worth
serious moments. You play with everything, I believe, and that is
banal. Ever sincerely,