her friend’s back, was quickly reassured by the thought that Justine was only a hospital nurse, who had to work for her living, and had really never “been anywhere”; but when Miss Brent’s verbal arrows were flying, it seemed somehow of more immediate consequence that she was fairly well-connected, and lived in New York. No one placed a higher value on the abstract qualities of wit and irony than Mrs. Dressel; the difficulty was that she never quite knew When Justine’s retorts were loaded, or when her own susceptibilities were the target aimed at; and between her desire to appear to take the joke, and the fear of being ridiculed without knowing it, her pretty face often presented an interesting study in perplexity. As usual, she now took refuge in bringing the talk back to a personal issue.
“I can’t imagine,” she said, “why you won’t go to the Gaines’s garden-party. It’s always the most brilliant affair of the season; and this year, with the John Amhersts here, and all their party—that fascinating Mrs. Eustace Ansell, and Mrs. Amherst’s father, old Mr. Langhope, who is quite as quick and clever as you are—you certainly can’t accuse us of being dull and provincial!”
Miss Brent smiled. “As far as I can remember, Effie, it is always you who accuse others of bringing
that charge against Hanaford. For my part, I know
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