“Gracious, Charlotte Varley! what kind of company do you entertain, for mercy’s sake!” very audibly ejaculated Miss Tyler. “Upon my word, if there isn’t my _mantuamaker_, Jessie Lincoln, invited to a party to honor _us_, mamma! Isn’t that a pretty piece of impudence! Well, I did think you were genteel people, and decently aristocratic before—you Varleys!” “Laud!” chimed the mamma, displaying her elegant row of porcelain, and fanning herself vigorously, “Who is the people that’s distinguished by such elustrious visiters as _sewing-women_, and takes ’em out into company? Don’t introduce _us_, Miss Varley!” “Havn’t you got some tailoress girls, and school ma’ams stowed away somewhere, Lottie, that you are going to bring out, to give distinction to this _mélange_?” sneered Elizabeth, in a lower tone, with a most contemptuous smile, before Charlotte had time to recover from her confusion enough to apologize that the company was no more exclusively patrician. “She is Mrs. Tower’s visiter,” stammered Charlotte, in a whisper, as Mrs. Tyler and Elizabeth rose from the sofa, and majestically walked a little aside, lest the despised mantuamaker should approach near enough to make an introduction inevitable. “A _towering_ specimen she must be!” punned Elizabeth to Miss Emilie Jones, who had stood near the sofa, leaning on the arm of her brother. The blood mounted to Emilie’s forehead, in an angry flood, and the bitterest retort rushed with the speed of lightning to her lip. “Hush, Emilie,” softly whispered her more prudent brother, as he saw the resentment of the insult to her friends, flashing in luminous sparkles from her black and brilliant eyes. “Silence is the ‘better part of valor’ just now, sister!”