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<h3 id="id00173" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER II.</h3> <h3 id="id00174" style="margin-top: 3em">AT BREAKFAST.</h3> "How do you like New York, Lois? You have been here long enough to judge of us now?" "Have I?" Mrs. Wishart and her guest being at breakfast, this question and answer go over the table. It is not exactly in New York, however. That is, it is within the city bounds, but not yet among the city buildings. Some little distance out of town, with green fields about it, and trees, and lawn sloping down to the river bank, and a view of the Jersey shore on the other side. The breakfast room windows look out over this view, upon which the winter sun is shining; and green fields stand in beautiful illumination, with patches of snow lying here and there. Snow is not on the lawn, however. Mrs. Wishart's is a handsome old house, not according to the latest fashion, either in itself or its fitting up; both are of a simpler style than anybody of any pretension would choose now-a-days; but Mrs. Wishart has no need to make any pretension; her standing and her title to it are too well known. Moreover, there are certain quain't witnesses to it all over, wherever you look. None but one of such secured position would have such an old carpet on her floor; and few but those of like antecedents could show such rare old silver on the board. The shawl that wraps the lady is Indian, and not worn for show; there are portraits on the walls that go back to a respectable English ancestry; there is precious old furniture about, that money could not buy; old and quain't and rich, and yet not striking the eye; and the lady is served in the most observant style by one of those ancient house servants whose dignity is inseparably connected with the dignity of the house and springs from it. No new comer to wealth and place can be served so. The whole air of everything in the room is easy, refined, leisurely, assured, and comfortable. The coffee is capital; and the meal, simple enough, is very delicate in its arrangement. Only the two ladies are at the table; one behind the coffee urn, and the other near her. The mistress of the house has a sensible, agreeable face, and well-bred manner; the other lady is the one who has been so jealously discussed and described in another family. As Miss Julia described her, there she sits, in a morning dress which lends her figure no attraction whatever. And—her figure can do without it. As the question is asked her about New York, her eye goes over to the glittering western shore. "I like this a great deal better than the city," she added to her former words. "O, of course, the brick and stone!" answered her hostess. "I did not mean that. I mean, how do you like us?" "Mrs. Wishart, I like you very much," said the girl with a certain sweet spirit. "Thank you! but I did not mean that either. Do you like no one but me?" "I do not know anybody else." "You have seen plenty of people." "I do not know them, though. Not a bit. One thing I do not like. People talk so on the surface of things." "Do you want them to go deep in an evening party?" "It is not only in evening parties. If you want me to say what I think, Mrs. Wishart. It is the same always, if people come for morning calls, or if we go to them, or if we see them in the evening; people talk about nothing; nothing they care about." "Nothing you care about." "They do not seem to care about it either." "Why do you suppose they talk it then?" Mrs. Wishart asked, amused. "It seems to be a form they must go through," Lois said, laughing a little. "Perhaps they enjoy it, but they do not seem as if they did. And they laugh so incessantly,—some of them,—at what has no fun in it. That seems to be a form too; but laughing for form's sake seems to me hard work." "My dear, do you want people to be always serious?" "How do you mean, 'serious'?" "Do you want them to be always going 'deep' into things?" "N-o, perhaps not; but I would like them to be always in earnest." "My dear! What a fearful state of society you would bring about! Imagine for a moment that everybody was always in earnest!" "Why not? I mean, not always sober; did you think I meant that? I mean, whether they laugh or talk, doing it heartily, and feeling and thinking as they speak. Or rather, speaking and laughing only as they feel." "My dear, do you know what would become of society?" "No. What?" "I go to see Mrs. Brinkerhoff, for instance. I have something on my mind, and I do not feel like discussing any light matter, so I sit silent. Mrs. Brinkerhoff has a fearfully hard piece of work to keep the conversation going; and when I have departed she votes me a great bore, and hopes I will never come again. When she returns my visit, the conditions are reversed; I vote her a bore; and we conclude it is easier to do without each other's company." "But do you never find people a bore as it is?" Mrs. Wishart laughed. "Do you?" "Sometimes. At least I should if I lived among them. Now, all is new, and I am curious." "I can tell you one thing, Lois; nobody votes you a bore." "But I never talk as they do." "Never mind. There are exceptions to all rules. But, my dear, even you must not be always so desperately in earnest. By the way! That handsome young Mr. Caruthers—does he make himself a bore too? You have seen a good deal of him." "No," said Lois with some deliberation. "He is pleasant, what I have seen of him." "And, as I remarked, that is a good deal. Isn't he a handsome fellow? I think Tom Caruthers is a good fellow, too. And he is likely to be a successful fellow. He is starting well in life, and he has connections that will help him on. It is a good family; and they have money enough." "How do you mean, 'a good family'?" "Why, you know what that phrase expresses, don't you?" "I am not sure that I do, in your sense. You do not mean religious?" "No," said Mrs. Wishart, smiling; "not necessarily. Religion has nothing to do with it. I mean—we mean— It is astonishing how hard it is to put some things! I mean, a family that has had a good social standing for generations. Of course such a family is connected with other good families, and it is consequently strong, and has advantages for all belonging to it." "I mean," said Lois slowly, "a family that has served God for generations. Such a family has connections too, and advantages." "Why, my dear," said Mrs. Wishart, opening her eyes a little at the girl, "the two things are not inconsistent, I hope." "I hope not." "Wealth and position are good things at any rate, are they not?" "So far as they go, I suppose so," said Lois. "O yes, they are pleasant things; and good things, if they are used right." "They are whether or no. Come! I can't have you holding any extravagant ideas, Lois. They don't do in the world. They make one peculiar, and it is not good taste to be peculiar." "You know, I am not in the world," Lois answered quietly. "Not when you are at home, I grant you; but here, in my house, you are; and when you have a house of your own, it is likely you will be. No more coffee, my dear? Then let us go to the order of the day. What is this, Williams?" "For Miss Lot'rop," the obsequious servant replied with a bow,—"de bo-quet." But he presented to his mistress a little note on his salver, and then handed to Lois a magnificent bunch of hothouse flowers. Mrs. Wishart's eyes followed the bouquet, and she even rose up to examine it. "That is beautiful, my dear. What camellias! And what geraniums! That is the Black Prince, one of those, I am certain; yes, I am sure it is; and that is one of the new rare varieties. That has not come from any florist's greenhouse. Never. And that rose-coloured geranium is Lady Sutherland. Who sent the flowers, Williams?" "Here is his card, Mrs. Wishart," said Lois. "Mr. Caruthers." "Tom Caruthers!" echoed Mrs. Wishart. "He has cut them in his mother's greenhouse, the sinner!" "Why?" said Lois. "Would that be not right?" "It would be right, if—. Here's a note from Tom's mother, Lois—but not about the flowers. It is to ask us to a luncheon party. Shall we go?" "You know, dear Mrs. Wishart, I go just where you choose to take me," said the girl, on whose cheeks an exquisite rose tint rivalled the Lady Sutherland geranium blossoms. Mrs. Wishart noticed it, and eyed the girl as she was engrossed with her flowers, examining, smelling, and smiling at them. It was pleasure that raised that delicious bloom in her cheeks, she decided; was it anything more than pleasure? What a fair creature! thought her hostess; and yet, fair as she is, what possible chance for her in a good family? A young man may be taken with beauty, but not his relations; and they would object to a girl who is nobody and has nothing. Well, there is a chance for her, and she shall have the chance. "Lois, what will you wear to this luncheon party?" "You know all my dresses, Mrs. Wishart. I suppose my black silk would be right." "No, it would not be right at all. You are too young to wear black silk to a luncheon party. And your white dress is not the thing either." "I have nothing else that would do. You must let me be old, in a black silk." "I will not let you be anything of the kind. I will get you a dress." "No, Mrs. Wishart; I cannot pay for it." "I will pay for it." "I cannot let you do that. You have done enough for me already. Mrs. Wishart, it is no matter. People will just think I cannot afford anything better, and that is the very truth." "No, Lois; they will think you do not know any better." "That is the truth too," said Lois, laughing. "No it isn't; and if it is, I do not choose they should think so. I shall dress you for this once, my dear; and I shall not ruin myself either." Mrs. Wishart had her way; and so it came to pass that Lois went to the luncheon party in a dress of bright green silk; and how lovely she looked in it is impossible to describe. The colour, which would have been ruinous to another person, simply set off her delicate complexion and bright brown hair in the most charming manner; while at the same time the green was not so brilliant as to make an obvious patch of colour wherever its wearer might be. Mrs. Wishart was a great enemy of startling effects, in any kind; and the hue was deep and rich and decided, without being flashy. "You never looked so well in anything," was Mrs. Wishart's comment. "I have hit just the right thing. My dear, I would put one of those white camellias in your hair—that will relieve the eye." "From what?" Lois asked, laughing. "Never mind; you do as I tell you." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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