The Willoughbys had said good-by to Mrs. Kent. Then Mr. Willoughby spoke thoughtfully:
"It was pleasant of her to say that about wishing she could see more of people like us, who are interested in real things, instead of the foolish round of gaiety that takes up so much of her time and gives her so little satisfaction, wasn"t it?"
His wife stole a sidewise glance at his gratified face and a satirical smile crossed her own countenance.
"Very pleasant, George," she said clearly. "But what I knew she meant, and what she knew that I knew she meant, was that my walking-skirt is an inch too long and my sleeves are old style, and your coat, poor dear, is beginning to look shiny in the back."
"Why--what--how--" began Mr. Willoughby helplessly; then he shook his head and gave it up.
Mrs. Wharton, the novelist, has never described any blunder of the so-called smart set quite as pathetic as one that actually happened to herself. A young man of a particularly old family, who sat next to her at dinner, said: "I"m terribly frightened to meet you, Mrs. Wharton,"
and when asked the origin of his terrors, explained: "I"ve always heard you"re such a frightful blackleg."
Rosenthal, the pianist, speaks eight or ten languages. But his knowledge of idiomatic English has not always been sufficient to enable him to follow all the critics have said about his pyrotechnic playing. The other day, reading over the latest batch of clippings in the manager"s office, he suddenly asked: "Vat iss "Fourt" of July interpretation?"
"Fourth of July?" was the reply, "Don"t you know the Fourth of July?
Why, the national holiday--everything n.o.ble and patriotic--George Washington--Battle of Bunker Hill--the Declaration of Independence--"
"Ah! I see," said the pianist, "Un grand compliment!"
Representative Cushman, of Washington, once came to Speaker Cannon with a letter written by the speaker himself.
"Mr. Speaker," he said, "I got this letter from you yesterday and I couldn"t read it. I showed it to twenty or thirty fellows in the House and, between us, we have spelled out all but the last three words."
Uncle Joe took the letter and studied it, "The last three words," he said, "are "Personal and Confidential.""
At a banquet held in a room the walls of which were adorned with many beautiful paintings, a well-known college president was called upon to respond to a toast. In the course of his remarks, wishing to pay a compliment to the ladies present, and designating the paintings with one of his characteristic gestures, he said: "What need is there of these painted beauties when we have so many with us at this table?"
The late Charles Eliot Norton was wont to deplore the modern youth"s preference of brawn to brain. He used to tell of a football game he once witnessed: "Princeton had a splendid player in Poe--you will remember little Poe?" and Professor Norton, thinking of "The Raven"
and "Annabel Lee," said to the lad at his side: "He plays well, that Poe!"
"Doesn"t he?" the youth cried. "Is he," said Professor Norton, "any relation to the great Poe?"
"Any relation?" said the youth. "Why, he is the great Poe."
A fire broke out one day in Francis Wilson"s dressing-room at the theater where he was playing.
He had some of his books around him, and in an agony of despair asked himself:
"Which shall I save?" He glanced at his precious Chaucer, at some Shakespearean volumes, when:
"Come, Mr. Wilson," broke in at the door from a fireman, "you have not a moment to lose."
"Yes, yes. Coming," replied Wilson absently.
He was looking for a special illuminated volume very dear to him.
"Come, Wilson," cried his manager; "come, get out!"
"All right, all right," said Wilson, and, grabbing some clothes in one hand, he s.n.a.t.c.hed with the other the nearest volume and ran to the street. There he looked at the huge volume in his arms. It was the city directory.
A city gentleman was recently invited down to the country for "a day with the birds." His aim was not remarkable for its accuracy, to the great disgust of the man in attendance, whose tip was generally regulated by the size of the bag.
"Dear me!" at last exclaimed the sportsman, "but the birds seem exceptionally strong on the wing this year."
"Not all of "em, sir," was the answer. "You"ve shot at the same bird about a dozen times. "E"s a-follerin" you about, sir."
"Following me about? Nonsense! Why should a bird do that?"
"Well, sir," came the reply. "I dunno, I"m sure, unless "e"s "angin"
"round you for safety."
A lady was calling on some friends one summer afternoon. The talk buzzed along briskly, fans waved and the daughter of the house kept twitching uncomfortably, frowning and making little smothered exclamations of annoyance. Finally, with a sigh, she rose and left the room.
"Your daughter," said the visitor, "seems to be suffering from the heat."
"No," said the hostess. "She is just back home from college and she is suffering from the family grammar."
"It ain"t everybody I"d put to sleep in this room," said old Mrs.
Jinks to the fastidious and extremely nervous young minister who was spending a night at her house.
"This here room is full of sacred a.s.sociations to me," she went on, as she bustled around opening shutters and arranging the curtains. "My first husband died in that bed with his head on these very pillers, and poor Mr. Jinks died settin" right in that corner. Sometimes when I come into the room in the dark I think I see him settin" there still.
"My own father died layin" right on that lounge under the winder. Poor pa! He was a Speeritualist, and he allus said he"d appear in this room after he died, and sometimes I"m foolish enough to look for him. If you should see anything of him to-night you"d better not tell me; for it"d be a sign to me that there was something in Speeritualism, and I"d hate to think that.
"My son by my first man fell dead of heart disease right where you stand. He was a doctor, and there"s two skeletons in that closet that belonged to him, and half a dozen skulls in that lower drawer.
"There, I guess you"ll be comfortable.
"Well, good night, and pleasant dreams."