“Olive!” cried her friend, “be still! Why, I can't _bear_ it! Why, you wretched thing!” “I dare say all the ladies in Equity make up their own carpets, and put them down, and she thought you were laughing at her.” “_Will_ you be still, Olive Halleck?” Miss Kingsbury was now a large, blonde mass of suffering, “Oh, dear, dear! What shall I do? It was sacrilege--yes, it was nothing less than sacrilege--to go on as I did. And I meant so well! I did so admire, and respect, and revere her!” Olive burst out laughing. “You wicked girl!” whimpered Clara. “Should you--should you write to her?” “And tell her you didn't mean her nose? Oh, by all means, Clara,--by all means! Quite an inspiration. Why not make her an evening party?” “Olive,” said Clara, with guilty meekness, “I have been thinking of that.” “_No_, Clara! Not seriously!” cried Olive, sobered at the idea. “Yes, seriously. Would it be so very bad? Only just a _little_ party,” she pleaded. “Half a dozen people or so; just to show them that I really feel--friendly. I know that he's told her all about meeting me here, and I'm not going to have her think I want to drop him because he's married, and lives in a little house on Clover Street.” “Noble Clara! So you wish to bring them out in Boston society? What will you do with them after you've got them there?” Miss Kingsbury fidgeted in her chair a little. “Now, look me in the eye, Clara! Whom were you going to ask to meet them? Your unfashionable friends, the Hallecks?” “My friends, the Hallecks, of course.” “And Mr. Atherton, your legal adviser?” “I had thought of asking Mr. Atherton. You needn't say what he is, if you please, Olive; you know that there's no one I prize so much.” “Very good. And Mr. Cameron?” “He has got back,--yes. He's very nice.” “A Cambridge tutor; very young and of recent attachment to the College, with no local affiliations, yet. What ladies?” “Miss Strong is a nice girl; she is studying at the Conservatory.” “Yes. Poverty-stricken votary of Miss Kingsbury. Well?” “Miss Clancy.” “Unfashionable sister of fashionable artist. Yes?” “The Brayhems.” “Young radical clergyman, and his wife, without a congregation, and hoping for a pulpit in Billerica. Parlor lectures on German literature in the mean time. Well?” “And Mrs. Savage, I thought.” “Well-preserved young widow of uncertain antecedents tending to grassiness; out-door _protégée_ of the hostess. Yes, Clara, go on and give your party. It will be _perfectly safe_! But do you think it will _deceive_ anybody?” “Now, Olive Halleck!” cried Clara, “I am not going to have you talking to me in that way! You have no right to do it, and you have no business to do it,” she added, trying to pluck up a spirit. “Is there anybody that I value more than I do you and your sisters, and Ben?” “No. But you don't value us _just in that way_, and you know it. Don't you be a humbug, Clara. Now go on with your excuses.”