University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.

LAURA soon discovered that there were three distinct aristocracies
in Washington. One of these, (nick-named
the Antiques,) consisted of cultivated, high-bred old families
who looked back with pride upon an ancestry that had
been always great in the nation's councils and its wars from
the birth of the republic downward. Into this select circle
it was difficult to gain admission. No. 2 was the aristocracy
of the middle ground—of which, more anon. No. 3 lay
beyond; of it we will say a word here. We will call it the
Aristocracy of the Parvenus—as, indeed, the general public did.
Official position, no matter how obtained, entitled a man to
a place in it, and carried his family with him, no matter
whence they sprang. Great wealth gave a man a still higher
and nobler place in it than did official position. If this
wealth had been acquired by conspicuous ingenuity, with
just a pleasant little spice of illegality about it, all the better.
This aristocracy was “fast,” and not averse to ostentation.

The aristocracy of the Antiques ignored the aristocracy of
the Parvenus; the Parvenus laughed at the Antiques, (and
secretly envied them.)

There were certain important “society” customs which
one in Laura's position needed to understant. For instance,
when a lady of any prominence comes to one
of our cities and takes up her residence, all the ladies
of her grade favor her in turn with an initial call, giving
their cards to the servant at the door by way of introduction.
They come singly, sometimes; sometimes in couples;—and
always in elaborate full dress. They talk two minutes and a
quarter and then go. If the lady receiving the call desires a
further acquaintance, she must return the visit within two
weeks; to neglect it beyond that time means “let the matter
drop.” But if she does return the visit within two weeks, it
then becomes the other party's privilege to continue the
acquaintance or drop it. She signifies her willingness to continue
it by calling again any time within twelve months;
after that, if the parties go on calling upon each other once a
year, in our large cities, that is sufficient, and the acquaintanceship
holds good. The thing goes along smoothly, now. The
annual visits are made and returned with peaceful regularity
and bland satisfaction, although it is not necessary that the
two ladies shall actually see each other oftener than once
every few years. Their cards preserve the intimacy and keep
the acquaintanceship intact.

For instance, Mrs. A. pays her annual visit, sits in her carriage
and sends in her card with the lower right hand corner
turned down, which signifies that she has “called in person;”
Mrs. B. sends down word that she is “engaged” or “wishes
to be excused”—or if she is a Parvenu and low-bred, she
perhaps sends word that she is “not at home.” Very good;
Mrs. A. drives on happy and content. If Mrs. A.'s daughter
marries, or a child is born to the family, Mrs. B. calls, sends
in her card with the upper left hand corner turned down, and
then goes along about her affairs—for that inverted corner
means “Congratulations.” If Mrs. B.'s husband falls down

[ILLUSTRATION]

THE ATTACHÉS OF THE ANTIQUES.

[Description: 499EAF. Page 297. In-line image of two men driving a carriage, with a white horse at the lead] stairs and breaks his neck, Mrs. A. calls, leaves her card
with the upper right hand corner turned down, and then takes
her departure; this corner means “Condolence.” It is very
necessary to get the corners right, else one may unintentionally
condole with a friend on a wedding or congratulate her
upon a funeral. If either lady is about to leave the city, she
goes to the other's house and leaves her card with “P. P. C.”
engraved under the name—which signifies, “Pay Parting
Call.” But enough of etiquette. Laura was early instructed
in the mysteries of society life by a competent mentor, and
thus was preserved from troublesome mistakes.

The first fashionable call she received from a member of
the ancient nobility, otherwise the Antiques, was of a pattern
with all she received from that limb of the aristocracy
afterward. This call was paid by Mrs. Major-General Fulke-Fulkerson
and daughter. They drove up at one in the afternoon
in a rather antiquated vehicle with a faded coat of arms
on the panels, an aged white-wooled negro coachman on the
box and a younger darkey beside him—the footman. Both
of these servants were
dressed in dull brown
livery that had seen
considerable service.

The ladies entered
the drawing-room in
full character; that is to say, with Elizabethan stateliness on
the part of the dowager, and an easy grace and dignity on the

part of the young lady that had a nameless something about it
that suggested conscious superiority. The dresses of both
ladies were exceedingly rich, as to material, but as notably
modest as to color and ornament. All parties having seated
themselves, the dowager delivered herself of a remark that
was not unusual in its form, and yet it came from her lips
with the impressiveness of Seripture:

“The weather has been unpropitious of late, Miss Hawkins.”

“It has indeed,” said Laura. “The climate seems to be
variable.”

“It is its nature of old, here,” said the daughter—stating
it apparently as a fact, only, and by her manner waving aside
all personal responsibility on account of it. “Is it not so,
mamma?”

“Quite so, my child. Do you like winter, Miss Hawkins?”
She said “like” as if she had an idea that its dictionary
meaning was “approve of.”

“Not as well as summer—though I think all seasons have
their charms.”

“It is a very just remark. The general held similar views.
He considered snow in winter proper; sultriness in summer
legitimate; frosts in the autumn the same, and rains in
spring not objectionable. He was not an exacting man. And
I call to mind now that he always admired thunder. You
remember, child, your father always admired thunder?”

“He adored it.”

“No doubt it reminded him of battle,” said Laura.

“Yes, I think perhaps it did. He had a great respect for
Nature. He often said there was something striking about
the ocean. You remember his saying that, daughter?”

“Yes, often, mother. I remember it very well.”

“And hurricanes. He took a great interest in hurricanes.
And animals. Dogs, especially—hunting dogs. Also comets.
I think we all have our predilections. I think it is this that
gives variety to our tastes.” Laura coincided with this view.

“Do you find it hard and lonely to be so far from your
home and friends, Miss Hawkins?”

“I do find it depressing sometimes, but then there is so
much about me here that is novel and interesting that my
days are made up more of sunshine than shadow.”

“Washington is not a dull city in the season,” said the
young lady. “We have some very good society indeed, and
one need not be at a loss for means to pass the time pleasantly.
Are you fond of watering-places, Miss Hawkins?”

“I have really had no experience of them, but I have always
felt a strong desire to see something of fashionable
watering-place life.”

“We of Washington are unfortunately situated in that
respect,” said the dowager. “It is a tedious distance to
Newport. But there is no help for it.”

Laura said to herself, “Long Branch and Cape May are
nearer than Newport; doubtless these places are low; I'll
feel my way a little and see.” Then she said aloud:

“Why I thought that Long Branch—”

There was no need to “feel” any further—there was that
in both faces before her which made that truth apparent.
The dowager said:

“Nobody goes there, Miss Hawkins—at least only persons
of no position in society. And the President.” She added
that with tranquility.

“Newport is damp, and cold, and windy and excessively
disagreeable,” said the daughter, “but it is very select. One
cannot be fastidious about minor matters when one has no
choice.”

The visit had spun out nearly three minutes, now. Both
ladies rose with grave dignity, conferred upon Laura a formal
invitation to call, and then retired from the conference.
Laura remained in the drawing-room and left them to pilot
themselves out of the house—an inhospitable thing, it seemed
to her, but then she was following her instructions. She
stood, steeped in reverie, a while, and then she said:

“I think I could always enjoy icebergs—as scenery—but
not as company.”

Still, she knew these two people by reputation, and was
aware that they were not ice-bergs when they were in their
own waters and amid their legitimate surroundings, but on
the contrary were people to be respected for their stainless
characters and esteemed for their social virtues and their
benevolent impulses. She thought it a pity that they had to
be such changed and dreary creatures on occasions of state.

The first call Laura received from the other extremity of
the Washington aristocracy followed close upon the heels of
the one we have just been describing. The callers this time
were the Hon. Mrs. Oliver Higgins, the Hon. Mrs. Patrique
Oreillé (pronounced O-relay,) Miss Bridget (pronounced
Breezhay) Oreillé, Mrs. Peter Gashly, Miss Gashly, and Miss
Emmeline Gashly.

The three carriages arrived at the same moment from different
directions. They were new and wonderfully shiny,
and the brasses on the harness were highly polished and bore
complicated monograms. There were showy coats of arms,
too, with Latin mottoes. The coachmen and footmen were
clad in bright new livery, of striking colors, and they had
black rosettes with shaving-brushes projecting above them, on
the sides of their stove-pipe hats.

When the visitors swept into the drawing-room they filled
the place with a suffocating sweetness procured at the perfumer's.
Their costumes, as to architecture, were the latest
fashion intensified; they were rainbow-hued; they were
hung with jewels—chiefly diamonds. It would have been
plain to any eye that it had cost something to upholster these
women.

The Hon. Mrs. Oliver Higgins was the wife of a delegate
from a distant territory—a gentleman who had kept the principal
“saloon,” and sold the best whiskey in the principal village
in his wilderness, and so, of course, was recognized as the
first man of his commonwealth and its fittest representative.

He was a man of paramount influence at home, for he was
public spirited, he was chief of the fire department, he had
an admirable command of profane language, and had killed
several “parties.” His shirt fronts were always immaculate;
his boots daintily polished, and no man could lift a foot and
fire a dead shot at a stray speck of dirt on it with a white
handkerchief with a finer grace than he; his watch chain
weighed a pound; the gold in his finger ring was worth forty
five dollars; he wore a diamond
cluster-pin and he parted his hair
behind. He had always been regarded
as the most elegant gentleman
in his territory, and it was
conceded by all that no man thereabouts
was anywhere near his
equal in the telling of an obscene
story except the venerable white-haired
governor himself. The
Hon. Higgins had not come to
serve his country in Washington
for nothing. The appropriation
which he had engineered through
Congress for the maintenance of
the Indians in his Territory would
have made all those savages rich
if it had ever got to them.

The Hon. Mrs. Higgins was a
picturesque woman, and a fluent talker, and she held a tolerably
high station among the Parvenus. Her English was fair
enough, as a general thing—though, being of New York origin,
she had the fashion peculiar to many natives of that city of
pronouncing saw and law as if they were spelt sawr and lawr.

Petroleum was the agent that had suddenly transformed
the Gashlys from modest hard-working country village folk
into “loud” aristocrats and ornaments of the city.

The Hon. Patrique Oreillé was a wealthy Frenchman from
Cork. Not that he was wealthy when he first came from
Cork, but just the reverse. When he first landed in New

[ILLUSTRATION]

PAT O'RILEY AND THE OULD WOMAN.

[Description: 499EAF. Page 302. In-line image of a man with a trunk of his shoulders talking to a short woman.] York with his wife, he had only halted at Castle Garden for
a few minutes to receive and exhibit papers showing that he
had resided in this country two years—and then he voted the
democratic ticket and went
up town to hunt a house.
He found one and then
went to work as assistant
to an architect and builder,
carrying a hod all day and
studying politics evenings.
Industry and economy soon
enabled him to start a low
rum shop in a foul locality,
and this gave him political
influence. In our country
it is always our first care to
see that our people have the opportunity of voting for their
choice of men to represent and govern them—we do not permit
our great officials to appoint the little officials. We prefer
to have so tremendous a power as that in our own hands. We
hold it safest to elect our judges and everybody else. In our
cities, the ward meetings elect delegates to the nominating conventions
and instruct them whom to nominate. The publicans
and their retainers rule the ward meetings (for everybody
else hates the worry of politics and stays at home); the
delegates from the ward meetings organize as a nominating
convention and make up a list of candidates—one convention
offering a democratic and another a republican list of—incorruptibles;
and then the great meek public come forward at
the proper time and make unhampered choice and bless
Heaven that they live in a free land where no form of despotism
can ever intrude.

Patrick O'Riley (as his name then stood) created friends
and influence very fast, for he was always on hand at the
police courts to give straw bail for his customers or establish an
alibi for them in case they had been beating anybody to death

on his premises. Consequently he presently became a political
leader, and was elected to a petty office under the city government.
Out of a meager salary he soon saved money enough
to open quite a stylish liquor saloon higher up town, with a
faro bank attached and plenty of capital to conduct it with.
This gave him fame and great respectability. The position
of alderman was forced upon him, and it was just the same as
presenting him a gold mine. He had fine horses and carriages,
now, and closed up his whiskey mill.

By and by he became a large contractor for city work, and
was a bosom friend of the great and good Wm. M. Weed
himself, who had stolen $20,000,000 from the city and was a
man so envied, so honored, so adored, indeed, that when the
sheriff went to his office to arrest him as a felon, that sheriff
blushed and apologized, and one of the illustrated papers
made a picture of the scene and spoke of the matter in such a
way as to show that the editor regretted that the offense of an
arrest had been offered to so exalted a personage as Mr. Weed.

Mr. O'Riley furnished shingle nails to the new Court
House at three thousand dollars a keg, and eighteen gross of
60-cent thermometers at fifteen hundred dollars a dozen; the
controller and the board of audit passed the bills, and a mayor,
who was simply ignorant but not criminal, signed them.
When they were paid, Mr. O'Riley's admirers gave him a
solitaire diamond pin of the size of a filbert, in imitation
of the liberality of Mr. Weed's friends, and then Mr. O'Riley
retired from active service and amused himself with buying
real estate at enormous figures and holding it in other people's
names. By and by the newspapers came out with exposures
and called Weed and O'Riley “thieves,”—whereupon
the people rose as one man (voting repeatedly) and elected
the two gentlemen to their proper theatre of action, the New
York legislature. The newspapers clamored, and the courts
proceeded to try the new legislators for their small irregularities.
Our admirable jury system enabled the persecuted
ex-officials to secure a jury of nine gentlemen from a

neighboring asylum and three graduates from Sing-Sing, and
presently they walked forth with characters vindicated. The
legislature was called upon to spew them forth—a thing which
the legislature declined to do. It was like asking children to
repudiate their own father. It was a legislature of the
modern pattern.

Being now wealthy and distinguished, Mr. O'Riley, still
bearing the legislative “Hon.” attached to his name (for
titles never die in America, although we do take a republican
pride in poking fun at such trifles), sailed for Europe
with his family. They traveled all about, turning their
noses up at every thing, and not finding it a difficult thing
to do, either, because nature had originally given those features
a cast in that direction; and finally they established
themselves in Paris, that Paradise of Americans of their
sort.—They staid there two years and learned to speak English
with a foreign accent—not that it hadn't always had a
foreign accent (which was indeed the case) but now the
nature of it was changed.
Finally they returned home
and became ultra fashionables.
They landed here
as the Hon. Patrique
Oreillé and family, and so
are known unto this day.

Laura provided seats for
her visitors and they immediately
launched forth
into a breezy, sparkling
conversation with that easy
confidence which is to be
found only among persons accustomed to high life.

“I've been intending to call sooner, Miss Hawkins,” said
the Hon. Mrs. Oreillé, but the weather's been so horrid.—
How do you like Washington?”

Laura liked it very well indeed.

Mrs. Gashly—“Is it your first visit?”

Yes, it was her first.

All—“Indeed?”

Mrs. Oreillé—“I'm afraid you'll despise the weather, Miss
Hawkins. It's perfectly awful. It always is. I tell Mr.
Oreillé I can't and I won't put up with any such a climate.
If we were obliged to do it, I wouldn't mind it; but we are not
obliged to, and so I don't see the use of it. Sometimes its
real pitiful the way the childern pine for Parry—don't look
so sad, Bridget, ma chere—poor child, she can't hear Parry
mentioned without getting the blues.”

Mrs. Gashly—“Well I should think so, Mrs. Oreillé. A
body lives in Paris, but a body only stays here. I dote on
Paris; I'd druther scrimp along on ten thonsand dollars a
year there, than suffer and worry here on a real decent
income.”

Miss Gashly—“Well then I wish you'd take us back,
mother; I'm sure I hate this stoopid country enough, even
if it is our dear native land.”

Miss Emmeline Gashly—“What, and leave poor Johnny
Peterson behind?” [An airy general laugh applauded this
sally].

Miss Gashly—“Sister, I should think you'd be ashamed
of yourself!”

Miss Emmeline—“Oh, you needn't ruffle your feathers so.
I was only joking. He don't mean anything by coming to
the house every evening—only comes to see mother. Of
course that's all!” [General laughter].

Miss G. prettily confused—“Emmeline, how can you!”

Mrs. G.,—“Let your sister alone, Emmeline.—I never saw
such a tease!”

Mrs. Oreillé—“What lovely corals you have, Miss Hawkins!
Just look at them, Bridget, dear. I've a great passion
for corals—it's a pity they're getting a little common.
I have some elegant ones—not as elegant as yours, though
—but of course I don't wear them now.”

Laura—“I suppose they are rather common, but still I
have a great affection for these, because they were given to
me by a dear old friend of our family named Murphy.
He was a very charming man, but very eccentric. We always
supposed he was an Irishman, but after he got rich he went
abroad for a year or two, and when he came back you would
have been amused to see how interested he was in a potato.
He asked what it was! Now you know that when Providence
shapes a mouth especially for the accommodation of a
potato you can detect that fact at a glance when that mouth
is in repose—foreign travel
can never remove that sign.
But he was a very delightful
gentleman, and his little
foible did not hurt him
at all. We all have our
shams—I suppose there is
a sham somewhere about
every individual, if we
could manage to ferret it
out. I would so like to
go to France. I suppose
our society here compares
very favorably with French society does it not, Mrs. Oreillé?”

Mrs. O.—“Not by any means, Miss Hawkins? French
society is much more elegant—much more so.”

Laura—“I am sorry to hear that. I suppose ours has
deteriorated of late.”

Mrs. O.—“Very much indeed. There are people in society
here that have really no more money to live on than
what some of us pay for servant hire. Still I won't say but
what some of them are very good people—and respectable,
too.”

Laura—“The old families seem to be holding themselves
aloof, from what I hear. I suppose you seldom meet in society
now, the people you used to be familiar with twelve or
fifteen years ago?”

Mrs. O.—“Oh, no—hardly ever.”

Mr. O'Riley kept his first rum-mill and protected his customers
from the law in those days, and this turn of the conversation
was rather uncomfortable to madame than otherwise.

Hon. Mrs. Higgins—“Is François' health good now, Mrs.
Oreillé?”

Mrs. O.—(Thankful for the intervention)—“Not very.
A body couldn't expect it. He was always delicate—especially
his lungs—and this odious climate tells on him strong, now,
after Parry, which is so mild.”

Mrs. H.—“I should think so. Husband says Percy'll die
if he don't have a change; and so I'm going to swap round a
little and see what can be done. I saw a lady from Florida
last week, and she recommended Key West. I told her
Percy couldn't abide winds, as he was threatened with a pulmonary
affection, and then she said try St. Augustine. It's
an awful distance—ten or twelve hundred mile, they say—
but then in a case of this kind a body can't stand back for
trouble, you know.”

Mrs. O.—“No, of course that's so. If François don't get
better soon we've got to look out for some other place, or else
Europe. We've thought some of the Hot Springs, but I
don't know. It's a great responsibility and a body wants to
go cautious. Is Hildebrand about again, Mrs. Gashly?”

Mrs. G.—“Yes, but that's about all. It was indigestion,
you know, and it looks as if it was chronic. And you know
I do dread dyspepsia. We've all been worried a good deal
about him. The doctor recommended baked apple and spoiled
meat, and I think it done him good. It's about the only
thing that will stay on his stomach now-a-days. We have
Dr. Shovel now. Who's your doctor, Mrs. Higgins?”

Mrs. H.—“Well, we had Dr. Spooner a good while, but
he runs so much to emetics, which I think are weakening,
that we changed off and took Dr. Leathers. We like him
very much. He has a fine European reputation, too. The

first thing he suggested for Percy was to have him taken out
in the back yard for an airing, every afternoon, with nothing
at all on.”

Mrs. O. and Mrs. G.—“What!”

Mrs. H.—“As true as I'm sitting here. And it actually
helped him for two or three days; it did indeed. But after
that the doctor said it seemed to be too severe and so he has
fell back on hot foot-baths at night and cold showers in the
morning. But I don't think there can be any good sound
help for him in such a climate as this. I believe we are going
to lose him if we don't make a change.”

Mrs. O.—“I suppose you heard of the fright we had two
weeks ago last Saturday? No? Why that is strange—but
come to remember, you've all been away to Richmond.
François tumbled from the sky light in the second-story hall
clean down to the first floor—”

Everybody—“Mercy!”

Mrs. O.—Yes indeed—and broke two of his ribs—”

Everybody—“What!”

Mrs. O.—“Just as true as you live. First we thought he
must be injured internally. It was fifteen minutes past 8
in the evening. Of course we were all distracted in a moment
—everybody was flying everywhere, and nobody doing anything
worth anything. By and by I flung out next door and
dragged in Dr. Sprague, President of the Medical University
—no time to go for our own doctor of course—and the minute
he saw François he said, `Send for your own physician,
madam'—said it as cross as a bear, too, and turned right on
his heel and cleared out without doing a thing!”

Everybody—“The mean, contemptible brute!”

Mrs. O.—“Well you may say it. I was nearly out of my
wits by this time. But we hurried off the servants after our
own doctor and telegraphed mother—she was in New York
and rushed down on the first train; and when the doctor got
there, lo and behold you he found François had broke one of
his legs, too!”

Everybody—“Goodness!”

Mrs. O.—“Yes. So he set his leg and bandaged it up,
and fixed his ribs and gave him a dose of something to quiet
down his excitement and put him to sleep—poor thing he
was trembling and frightened to death and it was pitiful to
see him. We had him in my bed—Mr. Oreillé slept in the
guest room and I laid down beside François—but not to sleep
—bless you no. Bridget and I set up all night, and the doctor
staid till two in the morning, bless his old heart.—When
mother got there she was so used up with anxiety that she
had to go to bed and have the doctor; but when she found
that François was not in immediate danger she rallied, and by
night she was able to take a watch herself. Well for three
days and nights we three never left that bedside only to take
an hour's nap at a time. And then the doctor said François
was out of danger and if ever there was a thankful set, in
this world, it was us.”

Laura's respect for these women had augmented during
this conversation, naturally enough; affection and devotion
are qualities that are able to adorn and render beautiful a
character that is otherwise unattractive, and even repulsive.

Mrs. Gashly—“I do believe I should a died if I had been
in your place, Mrs. Oreillé. The time Hildebrand was so
low with the pneumonia Emmeline and me were all alone
with him most of the time and we never took a minute's
sleep for as much as two days and nights. It was at Newport
and we wouldn't trust hired nurses. One afternoon he
had a fit, and jumped up and run out on the portico of the
hotel with nothing in the world on and the wind a blowing
like ice and we after him scared to death; and when the
ladies and gentlemen saw that he had a fit, every lady scattered
for her room and not a gentleman lifted his hand to
help, the wretches! Well after that his life hung by a thread
for as much as ten days, and the minute he was out of danger
Emmeline and me just went to bed sick and worn out.
I never want to pass through such a time again. Poor dear
François—which leg did he break, Mrs. Oreillé?”

Mrs. O.—“It was his right hand hind leg. Jump down,
François dear, and show the ladies what a cruel limp you've
got yet.”

François demurred, but being coaxed and delivered gently
upon the floor, he performed very satisfactorily, with his
“right hand hind leg” in the air. All were affected—even
Laura—but hers was an affection of the stomach. The
country-bred girl had not suspected that the little whining
ten-ounce black and tan reptile, clad in a red embroidered
pigmy blanket and reposing in Mrs. Oreillé's lap
all through the visit was the individual whose sufferings
had been stirring the dormant generosities of her nature.
She said:

“Poor little creature! You might have lost him!”

Mrs. O.—“O pray don't mention it, Miss Hawkins—it
gives me such a turn!”

Laura—“And Hildebrand and Percy—are they—are
they like this one?”

Mrs. G.—“No, Hilly has considerable Skye blood in him,
I believe.”

Mrs. H.—“Percy's the same, only he is two months and
ten days older and has his ears cropped.—His father, Martin
Farquhar Tupper, was sickly, and died young, but he was

the sweetest disposition.—His mother had heart disease but
was very gentle and resigned, and a wonderful ratter.”[1]

So carried away had the visitors become by their interest
attaching to this discussion of family matters, that their stay
had been prolonged to a very improper and unfashionable
length; but they suddenly recollected themselves now and
took their departure.

Laura's scorn was boundless. The more she thought of
these people and their extraordinary talk, the more offensive
they seemed to her; and yet she confessed that if one
must choose between the two extreme aristocracies it might
be best, on the whole, looking at things from a strictly business
point of view, to herd with the Parvenus; she was in
Washington solely to compass a certain matter and to do it
at any cost, and these people might be useful to her, while it
was plain that her purposes and her schemes for pushing
them would not find favor in the eyes of the Antiques. If it
came to choice—and it might come to that, sooner or later—
she believed she could come to a decision without much
difficulty or many pangs.

But the best aristocracy of the three Washington castes,
and really the most powerful, by far, was that of the Middle
Ground. It was made up of the families of public men
from nearly every state in the Union—men who held positions
in both the executive and legislative branches of the
government, and whose characters had been for years blemishless,
both at home and at the capital. These gentlemen
and their households were unostentatious people; they were
educated and refined; they troubled themselves but little
about the two other orders of nobility, but moved serenely
in their wide orbit, confident in their own strength and well
aware of the potency of their influence. They had no

troublesome appearances to keep up, no rivalries which they
cared to distress themselves about, no jealousies to fret over.
They could afford to mind their own affairs and leave other
combinations to do the same or do otherwise, just as they
chose. They were people who were beyond reproach, and
that was sufficient.

Senator Dilworthy never came into collision with any of
these factions. He labored for them all and with them all.
He said that all men were brethren and all were entitled to
the honest unselfish help and countenance of a Christian
laborer in the public vineyard.

Laura concluded, after reflection, to let circumstances determine
the course it might be best for her to pursue as regarded
the several aristocracies.

Now it might occur to the reader that perhaps Laura had
been somewhat rudely suggestive in her remarks to Mrs.
Oreillé when the subject of corals was under discussion, but
it did not occur to Laura herself. She was not a person of
exaggerated refinement; indeed the society and the influences
that had formed her character had not been of a nature
calculated to make her so; she thought that “give and take
was fair play,” and that to parry an offensive thrust with a
sareasm was a neat and legitimate thing to do. She sometimes
talked to people in a way which some ladies would
consider actually shocking; but Laura rather prided herself
upon some of her exploits of that character. We are sorry
we cannot make her a faultless heroine; but we cannot, for
the reason that she was human.

She considered herself a superior conversationist. Long
ago, when the possibility had first been brought before her
mind that some day she might move in Washington society,
she had recognized the fact that practiced conversational
powers would be a necessary weapon in that field; she had
also recognized the fact that since her dealings there must be
mainly with men, and men whom she supposed to be exceptionally
cultivated and able, she would need heavier shot in

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 499EAF. Page 313. Tail-piece image of a woman on a couch talking with two young men next to a fire.] her magazine than mere brilliant “society” nothings; whereupon
she had at once entered upon a tireless and elaborate course
of reading, and had never since ceased to devote every unoccupied
moment to this sort of preparation. Having now
acquired a happy smattering of various information, she used
it with good effect—she passed for a singularly well informed
woman in Washington. The quality of her literary tastes
had necessarily undergone constant improvement under this
regimen, and as necessarily, also, the quality of her language
had improved, though it cannot be denied that now and then
her former condition of life betrayed itself in just perceptible
inelegancies of expression and lapses of grammar.