e, however, was all desirable; because it would draw
the calls of two or three old New York families who had hitherto stood
upon their dignity, and refused to acknowledge the shoddy aristocracy.
The beautiful Mrs. John Seymour, therefore, was no less useful
than ornamental, and advanced Mrs. Follingsbee's purposes in her
"Excelsior" movements.

"Now, I suppose," said Mrs. Follingsbee to Lillie one day, when they
had been out making fashionable calls together, "we really must call
on Charlie's wife, just to keep her quiet."

"I thought you didn't like her," said Lillie.

"I don't; I think she is dreadfully common," said Mrs. Follingsbee:
"she is one of those women who can't talk any thing but baby, and
bores Charlie half to death. But then, you know, when there is
a _liaison_ like mine with Charlie, one can't be too careful
to cultivate the wives. _Les convenances_, you know, are the
all-important things. I send her presents constantly, and send my
carriage around to take her to church or opera, or any thing that is
going on, and have her children at my fancy parties: yet, for
all that, the creature has not a particle of gratitude; those
narrow-minded women never have. You know I am very susceptible to
people's atmospheres; and I always feel that that creature is just as
full of spite and jealousy as she can stick in her skin."

It will be remarked that this was one of those idiomatic phrases which
got lodged in Mrs. Follingsbee's head in a less cultivated period of
her life, as a rusty needle sometimes hides in a cushion, coming out
unexpectedly when excitement gives it an honest squeeze.

"Now, I should think," pursued Mrs. Follingsbee, "that a woman who
really loved her husband would be thankful to have him have such a
rest from the disturbing family cares which smother a man's genius,
as a house like ours offers him. How can the artistic nature exercise
itself in the very grind of the thing, when this child has a cold,
and the other the croup; and there is fussing with mustard-paste and
ipecac and paregoric,--all those realities, you know? Why, Charlie
tells me he feels a great deal more affection for his children when he
is all calm and tranquil in the little boudoir at our house; and he
writes such lovely little poems about them, I must show you some of
them. But this creature doesn't appreciate them a bit: she has no
poetry in her."

"Well, I must say, I don't think I should have," said Lillie,
honestly. "