The Tailor-Made Girl/The First Ball
THE FIRST BALL.
("White parasols and elephants mad with pride")
In the Dressing Room.
Marigold (fille, rich and scrawny).—Oh, Mama, all the other débutantes are here!
Marigold (mère).—Of course, my dear!
Marigold (fille).—But, Mama, they are all décottetées!
Marigold (mère).—Assuredly. Fifine knew better than that for you.
Marigold (fille).—And such lovely necks and dimpled arms!
Marigold (mère, sententiously).—My dear, New York society men may admire and dance with plump shoulders; but they marry—
Marigold (fille).—What, Mama?
Marigold (mère).—Plump pocket-books, like your dear Papa's. And now we will go down.
Feminine Amenities.
Miss Fourthseason (girlishly).—Oh, do you know I came sans chaperon to-night!
Mrs. Marriedflirt (her friend).—Did you, indeed?
Miss Fourthseason.—Yes, Mama was taken suddenly ill, and Aunt Griselda is out of town; so I just brought my maid and came.
Mrs. Marriedflirt.—You were awfully brave. If it were not absurd, considering you are quite my senior in years, I would offer to—
Miss Fourthseason (equal to the occasion).—Thanks, awfully! You are looked upon as so very little married, you know, chérie, the slight protection really would not signify.
In the Salon.
Mr. Blasé (to hostess).—Could not resist one of your balls, Mrs. Daffodil. The memory of that of last season still lingers so fragrantly, (sotto voce, passing on,) and so does the flavor of that inimitable champagne punch. Now to avoid the women and get a comfortable stand near the supper room. It ought to be open very soon.
On the Floor.
Mrs. Wallflower (to eldest daughter).—Now, Ellen, that valse is over. Do stand up and look as if you had been dancing.
Ellen.—But there is not a man this side the room!
Mrs. Wallflower.—Never mind—put your cloak across my lap and be talking to me—your partner can have just left.
Frances (second daughter).—Oh, Mama, Jimmie Trevor is looking this way.
Mrs. Wallflower (expectantly).—Bow to him—oh, not so cordially—where is my lorgnette? I can give him a stony gaze that will bring him.
Frances.—He was glad to stay a fortnight at Stormcliffe last summer.
Mrs. Wallflower.—Of course, my dear! Stormcliffe fed and lodged him—all take, you know, and no give—now, to come over means a dance with each of you.
Ellen.—Well, he's not coming. He's joined the Ellsworths!
Mrs. Wallflower (sinking back disconsolately).—Oh, then, I give him up. How that woman can push and angle for men as she does astonishes me!
Frances.—There are four there, now, with May and Eleanor.
Mrs. Wallflower.—It is positively ill-bred.
Frances (in a low aside to her sister).—I believe I'd like to be vulgar a little while, Nell.
In the Smoking Room.
Gus (between puffs).—Well, the show has begun again.
Jack.—Ya-as.(Puff.)
Gus.—Same old crowd.
Jack.—Ya-as—a little the worse for summer wear.
Gus.—Some rather pretty girls among the buds.
Jack.—Don't go much on buds, myself.(Puff.)They're too enthusiastic!
Gus.—That's so!
Jack.—Takes a girl about two seasons to learn to let a man alone.
Gus.—Then add two seasons, and, gad, how she can hang on!
Jack.—She doesn't hang on to me.
Gus.—Fairish supper downstairs.
Jack.—Oh, ya-as. Daffodil's spread is good enough.
Gus.—The old man is off, as usual.
Jack.—Oh, ya-as. Rank old pahty, that!
Gus.—The Madam asked me to dahnce with somebody—I didn't see who—
Jack.—Of course you didn't!
Gus.—Of course not! I never dahnce.
Jack.—I nearly got run down to take a girl out to suppah.
Gus.—You don't say so!
Jack.—Ya-as. It's getting to be an awful tax on a man to show anywhere, nowadays.
Gus.—We'll be asked to talk next.
Jack.—Gad, it looks like it!
In Mrs. Daffodil's Dressing Room, 3 a.m.
Mr. Daffodil.—Well, m' dear, your ball was-h great s-su-skess.
Mrs. Daffodil (coldly).—I should hope it was more of a success than you were.
Mr. Daffodil.—Why, m' dear, how can you shay sho? I was inde-f-fatble.
Mrs. Daffodil.—Yes, at the champagne.
Mr. Daffodil.—Well, you know, m' dear, in my c'pacity as host—
Mrs. Daffosil.—You rather overtaxed your capacity as a man. Never mind (wearily), we won't discuss the matter further. The ball was a success, for I had two English Lords and an Honorable Miss, and the supper was perfect, or Sidney Blasé wouldn't have gone down three times. But oh, what a dreadful bore the whole thing was, and how glad I am to be through with it for the season.
