The Tailor-Made Girl/Over the Breakfast Coffee
OVER THE BREAKFAST COFFEE.
(At the Fashionable Boarding-House of Mrs. Cephas Jones.)
Mrs. Lieut. Gilliflower (of the Navy. Aged sixty-five. Third floor, back).—Good morning, Mrs. Smith! I see you are only just down, too. When people get to be our ages, punctuality at breakfast ceases to be one of the cardinal virtues.
Mrs. Effingham Smith (aged sixty. Second floor, front).—Oh, I don't admit that, at all, Mrs. Gilliflower! Do you mind if I straighten your front? it is a trifle awry. There, that is better!
Mrs. Gilliflower (somewhat coldly).—Thanks!
Mrs. Smith.—No; I am late this morning because I slept very poorly during the night. I shall have to speak to Mrs. Jones about the window shutter again—and a front (slightly emphasized) room is more or less noisy, you know.
Mrs. Gilliflower (composedly).—Yes; I do know. I told Mrs. Jones, when I came to look over her house, that I must have a quiet room, if I had to go up another flight to secure it.
Mrs. Smith.—Naturally, at your age, dear Mrs. Gilliflower. I confess I like the bustle and friction of the outside world which I get from my street windows.
Mrs. Gilliflower (loftily).—Possibly, Mrs. Smith, possibly; but you know we naval people get nothing but bustle and change and excitement all our lives. We find a positive novelty in retirement.
Mrs. Smith (to maid, with some asperity).—Sarah, my eggs will be boiled solid!
Mrs. Gilliflower.—I am feeling thoroughly blue this morning. I dined last evening quite en famille with my friends, the De Longuevilles, and I find that they sail for Europe in a fortnight.
Mrs. Smith (tersely).—What on?
Mrs. Gilliflower (innocently).—I don't think the name of the steamer was mentioned. A Cunarder, though, probably.
Mrs. Smith.—Humph! Sarah, the salt! Oh, well, I suppose Mrs. De Longueville's mother will float the family over the sea, as she has here on land so long.
Mrs. Gilliflower.—Really, Mrs. Smith, you grow poetic. Do you happen, by the way, to know the De Longueville bank account?
Mrs. Smith.—Bank account, indeed! Why, I don't suppose Dick De Longueville's check is good for a farthing. You can't tell me anything about that tribe. I know them through and through.
Mrs. Gilliflower.—I congratulate you. You have at least one desirable old family upon your list of acquaintances.
Mrs. Smith.—Old family—pshaw! But don't let us quarrel over the De Longuevilles—they are not worth it; it's an open secret, as you very well know, that their only hope now is to marry Eleanor to a fortune.
Mrs. Gilliflower.—Perhaps your informant on that score is Jane Midas. Her brother is fairly grovelling at Eleanor's feet.
Mrs. Smith (loftily).—The Midas family may be new, but they have too much instinctive good breeding to discuss their private affairs with an outsider.
Mrs. Gilliflower.—Ah!
Mrs. Smith.—Besides, Jenny is too absorbed in her own happiness to think of anything else.
Mrs. Gilliflower.—Ah, ha! So she has landed her fish, has she?
Mrs. Smith.—Really, Mrs. Gilliflower, your speech is quite beyond me!
Mrs. Gilliflower.—I wonder her golden bait didn't draw better. This Englishman is only a younger son.
Mrs. Smith.—A second son, if you please.
Mrs. Gilliflower.—Well, that's not much better.
Mrs. Smith.—Vastly better, when the heir-presumptive is a bachelor with heart-disease.
Mrs. Gilliflower.—Oh, she takes the risk, does she?
Mrs. Smith.—She marries as her heart dictates.
Mrs. Gilliflower.—Fudge! Her presents ought to be ticketed—"with best wishes for a brother-in-law's early demise."
Mrs. Smith.—Sarah, the vinegar! By the by, Mrs. Gilliflower, you'll have to give up lavender ribbons on your breakfast-caps.
Mrs. Gilliflower.—Why, pray?
Mrs. Smith.—Oh, our new boarder, the bride, does not approve of them.
Mrs. Gilliflower (with a sniff).—Indeed!
Mrs. Smith.—Yes; she remarked yesterday, at luncheon, "it was such a pity you wore lavender so much; it is such a very trying color."
Mrs. Gilliflower.—Humph! Her tongue is as long as her neck. She thinks, by the way, that you write society gossip for the Weekly Jenkins.
Mrs. Smith (coloring).—I? What presumption!
Mrs. Gilliflower.—Yes; I told her it was quite impossible you could do such a thing.
Mrs. Smith.—Oh!(dryly.)You were very kind!
Mrs. Gilliflower.—She quite insisted, though!
Mrs. Smith.—Like Mr. Baldhead, your vis-a-vis, when I endeavored to convince him what folly it was to suppose you did the personals for the Saturday Gossip.
Mrs. Gilliflower (angrily).—Mr. Baldhead is a meddlesome old stupid!
