The Tailor-Made Girl/At the End of the Season
AT THE END OF THE SEASON.
Blessed is he who hath found his work; let him ask no other blessedness. He has a work, a life purpose; he has found it and will follow it.—Carlyle.
Fan.—Oh, Nan, how do you do?
Nan.—Do? I don't do at all. I am just worn out.
Fan.—So am I. I haven't energy enough to tell the truth.
Nan.—And it is so much easier to fib, isn't it?
Fan.—Oh, infinitely. But, really, I can hardly wait for Ash Wednesday.
Nan.—Nor I. I tell mama I shall sleep for a straight week from Mardi Gras.
Fan.—I wish I could, but I've got to do some church-going.
Nan.—It's just lovely to be a Presbyterian through Lent.
Fan.—It must be. I envy you. Mama and I, though, are going down to Old Point almost directly.
Nan.—And you don't have to be anything there but lazy. How wise you are!
Fan.—Aren't we? It is a case of necessity. I take my own maid now to all the balls, and she just keeps me through the evening on sherry and quinine.
Nan.—I live on beef-tea and massage.
Fan.—Oh, I'm quite beyond those.
Nan.—Isn't it just dreadful the way we are worked?
Fan.—Perfectly! I mustn't stay gossiping with you another moment. I have to finish my shopping yet, and hurry home to luncheon, and this afternoon I show at four receptions, dine at the Merediths', and go with them to the opera, and finish the night at the Hillhouse german.
Nan.—So do I—everything except the dinner, and we entertain at home. Come and see me when you can.
Fan.—Thanks. I'll try.
Nan.—Don't come before twelve. I am not at home to my maid, even, till eleven. Good-by.
Fan.—Good-by.
***
Mrs. B.—Oh, my dear Mrs. X., do sit down quietly by me a moment.
Mrs. X.—With the greatest pleasure. In these crowded rooms a secluded nook like this is a positive boon.
Mrs. B.—Isn't it?—particularly at this end of the season. I am thoroughly fagged.
Mrs. X.—So am I, completely. I tell Mr. X. nothing but an ocean trip will revive me this Lent.
Mrs. B.—Do you think you will go over?
Mrs. X.—Not over, but down. To Nassau, probably.
Mrs. B.—Anywhere, to rest. I tell Mr. B. when one's visiting list is as large as mine, it really needs the strength of a Hercules to keep up with the round.
Mrs. X.—Doesn't it? Mrs. Y. said to me the other day: "Wait till your daughter grows up, and then you'll know what a real winter's work is."
Mrs. B.—Poor Mrs. Y.! I can fancy she finds it dreadfully fatiguing to chaperon her dear Belle.
Mrs. X.—Can you not? I smiled to myself when I told her that she ought to be contented now to shine in her daughter's reflected light.
Mrs. B.—You were really too unkind. The poor woman would sit in the darkness of Erebus.
Mrs. X.—Poor Belle! The season has been wasted for her.
Mrs. B.—Worse than wasted, for it counts one more.
Mrs. X.—Yes, indeed! But I must leave you. I see Mrs. Z. in the tea-room, and I want to speak to her. We play together to-morrow night, you know.
Mrs. B.—Oh, yes, I'm coming, if I'm alive.
Mrs. X.—It's a very worthy charity, I believe. I've forgotten just which one it is we play for to-morrow night, but I know it deserves to be sustained.
Mrs. B.—I don't doubt it. Good-by.
Mrs. X.—Good-by.
***
Saunders.—Hello, Flaunders, which way?
Flaunders.—Oh, to one of those blankety blank teas, third this week.
Saunders.—Gawd! one used me up.
Flaunders.—Don't wonder! Beastly bores!
Saunders.—Ya'as; the whole business is.
Flaunders.—Deuced good thing Lent calls a halt.
Saunders.—Gawd! I'm all played out.
Flaunders.—Ditto. A german now knocks me endwise.
Saunders —Gawd! My man groomed me an hour after the last one.
Flaunders.—Dessay.
Saunders.—Have a B. & S.?
Flaunders.—Just had two.
Saunders.—So have I. Have another!
Flaunders.—I'll go you!
