mbo of insignificance.

Had Mrs. Manhattan been any other than herself, Eden would have sent
back some femininely prevaricatory excuse. She was enervated still by
the emotions of the preceding day, and her desire for companionship was
slight. But Mrs. Manhattan was not only Mrs. Manhattan, she was a woman
for whom Eden entertained a quasi-filial, quasi-sororal affection. She
went forward therefore at once, her hands outstretched to greet.

On ordinary occasions it was Mrs. Manhattan's custom to salute Eden with
a kiss, but on this particular afternoon she contented herself with
taking the outstretched hands in her own, holding Eden, as it were, at
arms length.

"You abominable little beauty," she began, "what did you mean by leaving
me in the lurch last night? I came here expecting to find you in bed
with the doctor. _Mais pas du tout. Madame s'embellit a vu d'[oe]il._"

"Laura, dear," Eden answered, when they had found seats, "don't be
annoyed at me. I wanted very much to come. But you know the proverb: man
proposes----"

"--And woman accepts. Yes, I know; go on."

"Well, I simply couldn't help it."

"Couldn't help it! What do you mean by saying you couldn't help it?
Don't sit there with your back to the light; I want to look at you.
Eden, as sure as my name is Laura Leigh, something has gone wrong with
you. What business have you, at your age, to have circles under your
eyes?"

"Presumably because I was unable to get to your dinner. I am really
sorry, Laura. Did you have many people?"

"Of course I didn't. Nicholas won't let me give large dinners. There
were only eighteen of us. I suppose I could have got the Boltens to come
and take your place. But then you know how people are. Unless you invite
them a fortnight in advance they think they are asked to fill up--as
they are. H'm! I was mad enough. Nicholas was to have taken you in, and
by way of compensation you were to have had your old flame, Dugald
Maule, on the other side of you. Parenthetically, it is my opinion that
he loves you still--beyond the tomb, as they love in Germany. However,
that is not to the point; the dinner was a failure. Afterwards we all
went to the Amsterdams; all of us, that is, except Jones, who said he
had an engagement, which meant I suppose, that he was not expected."

"Jones, the novelist?"

"Yes, Alphabet Jones. Personally he is as inoffensive as a glass of
lemonade, but I can't bear his books. He uses words I don't understan