Mr. Maltboy, supposing that she alluded to the prevalent snow and ice of the season, said that it certainly had.
"No balls, no opera--or none to speak of--no parties, no anything. You will hardly believe it, Mr. Maltboy, but I declare I haven't been to twenty parties this winter--have I, Gusty?"
"To only two that I know of," responded Mrs. Frump, in a winning voice.
"You provoking creature," said Miss Whedell, "to talk so, when you know that I have been to at least eighteen parties!" Miss Whedell scowled charmingly as she spoke, and then added, with a pleasant smile, for the benefit of Mr. Maltboy: "She's a gay young widow; and you know what widows are."
Mr. Maltboy's knowledge of that species of the human family was extensive and exact. He nodded, to signify that he knew something of them, and felt forearmed, from that moment, against the charms of Mrs. Frump.
Mrs. Frump told Miss Whedell that she thanked her very much for the compliment, and laughed so prettily, that Fayette Overtop determined to apply some of his grand tests for the discovery of sensible women.
Abandoning the vein of commonplace conversation which he had worked during the five minutes since his arrival, he remarked:
"It really makes us feel young again--does it not, Mrs. Frump?--to renew this charming custom of receiving and making calls."
Mr. Overtop spoke in general terms, like a philosopher; whereas Mrs. Frump made a personal application of the remark to herself, and replied, rather coldly: "I have no doubt that it makes old persons feel younger," and then she looked at Matthew Maltboy, and seemed to be listening to the conversation between him and Miss Whedell.
Mr. Overtop paused a moment, and tried again: "Is it not pleasant, though sad, Mrs. Frump, to think of the friends whom we knew many, many years ago, who no longer live to greet us on this festal day?" The speaker alluded to mankind at large.
Mrs. Frump responded tartly, that she could not speak from experience, of course, but she presumed that Mr. Overtop's opinion was correct. And again she glanced at Maltboy.
Mr. Overtop briefly rested, and then remarked:
"It may be merely a poetical conceit of mine, but it seems to me that the horses prance higher, and shake their bells more merrily on New Year's than any other day, as if they partook in our enjoyment of the occasion. May not the horse, by some mysterious instinct, know that it is the beginning of the year?"
Mrs. Frump smiled, and answered: "Not being a horse, of course I can't say. But I would suggest, whether ostlers do not give their animals an extra quantity of oats on New Year's day, to make their action more stylish?"
Mr. Overtop marked a quizzical expression in the widow's left eye, and was disgusted.
For the third time she looked intently at Matthew Maltboy, who was putting in a few words with great animation; and then turned her face toward Mr. Quigg, who was taking his third mental inventory of the furniture, and executing "Hail Columbia," with variations, on his hat.
"It's a finer New Year's day than the last one, is it not, Mr. Quigg?"
Mr. Quigg, who had an astonishing memory for dates and conditions of the weather, replied, after a second's reflection:
"It is a much finer day, Mrs. Frump. It rained last New Year's. Perhaps you may remember my leaving an umbrella at the house where you were then stopping, in Sixteenth street, and my calling for it again, on which occasion you said I reminded you of Paul Pry, in the play, who was always forgetting his umbrella."
The widow laughed, and said that she distinctly remembered the circumstances.
Mr. Quigg, thus encouraged, went on:
"New Year's days differ very much. The one before the last was very snowy in the forenoon, with hail in the afternoon; and the one before that was so mild, that I found an overcoat really uncomfortable. The one before--"
"Excuse me for the interruption," said Mrs. Frump, suddenly, "but I can't help saying how much Mr. Maltboy looks like Dr. Warts. Doesn't he, Clemmy?"
"Like Dr. Warts!" exclaimed Miss Whedell. "Who's he?"
"Why, don't you remember, Clemmy, the doctor that you consulted about your hair?" The widow looked the picture of guilelessness as she asked the question.
Miss Whedell turned slightly red in parts of her face that were not red before, and involuntarily raised her hands to two heavy braids of hair which fronted each ear, and adjusted them. Then she said, sarcastically:
"Mr. Maltboy must feel much flattered at being compared with a notorious quack."
Mrs. Frump, with a laugh spreading all over her gentle face, replied:
"Oh! of course you call him a quack, because he could not save your--"
"You are rude, madam," said Miss Whedell, with emotion.
"And you are silly, miss," retorted Mrs. Frump, still smiling, "to take offence at nothing."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, madam."
Greatly to the relief of the three callers, who were seized with a desire to laugh aloud during this short, snapping dialogue, a bell rang, and a new figure entered upon the scene. The two ladies rose about three inches, and greeted him as Mr. Chiffield. Mr. Chiffield bowed stiffly, smiled mechanically, and cast a sweeping glance at the three men present. This glance, and the looks with which it was met, called up a singular train of associations.
Maltboy remembered the new comer as a fellow who had trod on his corns getting into an Amity street stage. Overtop remembered him as an eccentric individual, who always carried, without the slightest reference to existing weather, an umbrella under his arm, with the point rearward, and held at just the angle to pierce the eye of a person walking incautiously after him. Overtop had frequently felt a strong inclination to pull the umbrella out from behind, and ask the bearer to carry it in a less threatening manner.
Mr. Chiffield, on the other hand, readily recalled Matthew Maltboy as a suspicious person whom he had seen hanging around an up-town hotel, about a year and a half before (when Maltboy was paying his ineffectual addresses to a cruel Cuban beauty who passed the summer months at that house). Mr. Chiffield had always supposed him to be a confidence man of superior abilities.
Of Overtop, Mr. Chiffield was vaguely reminiscent. Unless he was mistaken, that person was the one who wore an entire suit of pepper and salt, including a felt hat, necktie, and gaiters, two summers before.
Mr. Quigg was a novelty in Mr. Chiffield's eyes; but Mr. Chiffield was well known by sight to Mr. Quigg, who also remembered to have heard that he was a partner in the great drygoods house of Upjack, Chiffield & Co.
Mr. Chiffield was about forty years of age, and had a bald head, a square, heavy face, scanty whiskers, small, shrewd eyes, and a bilious complexion. He dressed in profound black, wore his necktie negligently, exhibited neither ring nor breastpin nor gold chain, spoke as if he were always thinking inwardly of his private business, and never laughed. These peculiarities indicated, beyond any doubt, that Mr. Chiffield was a wealthy man; though it might be difficult to trace the exact processes of reasoning by which this conclusion was reached. Any unprejudiced stranger, seeing Mr. Chiffield, and being told that he was a partner in a large drygoods house, would instantly think, "That drygoods house will stand in the midst of fires, earthquakes, and financial revulsions."
With that fine instinct peculiar to lovers, Matthew Maltboy immediately recognized in Mr. Chiffield a rival--and a dangerous one. Having seen much of society, Maltboy was well aware that Mr. Chiffield's mature age, his grim appearance, his sparse whiskers, and even the bald spot on the top of his head, were eminent advantages with which youth and bloom, and a full head of hair could not cope--unless with the aid of that fascination which Matthew flattered himself that he possessed, and which, he thought, he had used to some purpose during his hurried conversation with his twentieth enslaver, Miss Whedell. The usages of New Year's day, as well as frequent impatient