THE SEVEN CONVERSATIONS OF DEAR JONES AND BABY VAN RENSSELAER.

BY BRANDER MATTHEWS AND H. C. BUNNER.

I. THE FIRST CONVERSATION.

Tuesday, February 14, 1882.

The band was invisible, but, unfortunately, not inaudible. It was in the butler’s pantry, playing Waldteufel’s latest waltz, “Süssen Veilchen.” The English butler, who resented the intrusion of the German leader, was introducing an obbligato unforeseen by the composer. This was the second of Mrs. Martin’s charming Tuesdays in February. Mrs. Martin herself, fondly and familiarly known as the “Duchess of Washington Square,” stopped a young man as he was making a desperate rush for his overcoat, then reposing under three strata of late comers’ outer garments in the second-floor back, and said to him:

“O Dear Jones”—the Duchess always called him Dear Jones—“I want to introduce you to Baby Van Rensselaer—Phyllis Van Rensselaer, you know—they always called her Baby Van Rensselaer, though I’m sure I don’t know why—Phyllis is such a lovely name—don’t you think so?—and your grandfathers were such friends.” [Dear Jones executed an ex post facto condemnation upon his ancestor and hers.] “You know Major Van Rensselaer was your grandfather’s partner until that unfortunate affair of the embezzlement—O Baby dear—there you are, are you? I was wondering where you were all this time. This is Mr. Jones, dear, one of your grandfather’s most intimate friends. Oh, I don’t mean that, of course—you know what I mean—and I do so want you two to know each other.”

Dear Jones: What in the name of the prophet does the Duchess mean by introducing me to More Girls?

Baby Van Rensselaer: I do wish the Duchess wouldn’t insist on tiring me out with slim young men; I never can tell one from the other.

These remarks were not uttered. They remained in the privacy of the inner consciousness. What they really said was:

Dear Jones [inarticulately]: Miss Van Rensselaer.

Baby Van Rensselaer [inattentively]: Yes, it is rather warm.…

And they drifted apart in the crowd.

II. THE SECOND CONVERSATION.

Thursday, April 13, 1882.

Of course, Dear Jones was the last to arrive of the favored children of the world who had been invited to dine at Judge Gillespie’s “to meet the Lord Bishop of Barset,” just imported from England per steamer “Servia.” In the hall, the butler, whose appearance was even more dignified and clerical than the Bishop’s, handed Dear Jones an unsealed communication.

Dear Jones [examining the contents]: Who in Heligoland is Miss Van Rensselaer?

As Dear Jones entered, Mrs. Sutton—the Judge’s daughter, you know—married Charley Sutton, who came from San Francisco—Mrs. Sutton gave a little sigh of relief, nodded to the butler, and said in perfunctory answer to the apologies Dear Jones had not made: “Oh, no; you’re not a bit late—we haven’t been waiting for you at all—the Bishop has only just come”—(confidentially in his ear) “I’ve given you a charming girl.” [Dear Jones shuddered: he knew what that generally meant.] “You know Baby Van Rensselaer? Of course—there she is—now, go—and do be bright and clever.” And after thus handicapping an inoffensive young man, she took the Bishop’s arm in the middle of his ante-prandial anecdote.

Dear Jones [marching to his fate]: It’s the Duchess’s girl again, by Jove! It’s lucky Uncle Larry is going to take me off at ten sharp.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Why, it’s that Mr. Jones!

These remarks were not uttered. They remained in the privacy of the inner consciousness. What they really said was:

Dear Jones [with audacious hypocrisy]: Of course, you don’t remember me, Miss Van Rensselaer.…

Baby Van Rensselaer [trumping his card unabashed]: I really don’t quite.…

Dear Jones [offering his arm]: Er … don’t you remember the Duch—Mrs. Martin’s—that hideously rainy afternoon, just before Lent?

Here there was a gap in the conversation as the procession took up its line of march, and moved through a narrow passage into the dining-room.

Dear Jones [making a brave dash at the “bright and clever”]: Well, in my house, the door into the dining-room shall be eighteen feet wide.

Baby Van Rensselaer [literal, stern, and cold]: Are you building a house, Mr. Jones?

Dear Jones [calmly]: I am at present, Miss Van Rensselaer, building—let me see—four—five—seven houses.

Baby Van Rensselaer [coldly and suspecting flippancy]: Ah, indeed—are you a billionaire?

Dear Jones: No; I’m an architect.

Baby Van Rensselaer [in confusion]: Oh, I’m sure I beg your pardon—

Dear Jones: You needn’t. I shouldn’t be at all ashamed to be a billionaire.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Oh, of course not—I didn’t mean that—

Dear Jones [unguardedly]: Well, if it comes to that; I’m not ashamed of my architecture either.

Baby Van Rensselaer [calmly]: Indeed? I have never seen any of it.

Dear Jones: You sit here, I think. This is your card with the little lady in the powdered wig—a cherubic Madame de Staël.

Baby Van Rensselaer: And this is yours with a Cupid in a basket—a nineteenth century Moses.

Dear Jones [taking his seat beside her]: Talking about dinner cards—and billionaires, you heard of that dinner old Creasers gave to fifty-two of his friends of the new dispensation. I believe there was one poor fellow there whose wife had only half a peck of diamonds. He assembled his hordes in the picture-gallery, as the dining-room wasn’t large enough—you see, I didn’t build his house. And to carry out the novelty of the thing, his dinner cards were—

Baby Van Rensselaer: Playing-cards?

Dear Jones: Just so—but they were painted, “hand-painted” on satin.

Baby Van Rensselaer: And what did he take for himself—the king of diamonds?

Dear Jones: For the only time in his life he forgot himself—and he had to put up with the Joker.

Baby Van Rensselaer: What sort of people were there?

Dear Jones: Very good sort, indeed. There was a M. Meissonnier and M. Gérôme and a M. Corot—besides the man who sold them to him.

Everybody knows how a conversation runs on at dinner, when it does run on. On this occasion it ran on for seventy minutes and six courses. Dear Jones and Baby Van Rensselaer discussed the usual topics and the usual bill-of-fare. Then, as the butler served the bombe glacée à la Demidoff—

Baby Van Rensselaer: Oh, I’m so glad you liked her. We were at school together, you know, and she was with us when we went up the Saguenay last August.

Dear Jones: Why, I went up the Saguenay last August.

Baby Van Rensselaer [earnestly]: And we didn’t meet? How miserably absurd!

Dear Jones: I’ll tell you whom I did meet—your father’s partner, Mr. Hitchcock. He had his daughter with him, too—a very bright girl. You know her, of course.

Baby Van Rensselaer [coldly]: I have heard she is quite clever. [A pause.] The Hitchcocks—I believe—go more in the—New England set. I have met her brother, though—Mr. Mather Hitchcock.…

Dear Jones: Mat Hitchcock; that little cad?

Baby Van Rensselaer: Is he a little cad? I thought he was rather—bright.

After this, conversation was desultory; and soon the male guests were left to their untrammeled selves, tobacco and the Bishop. At eleven minutes past ten, in the vestibule of Judge Gillespie’s house, a young man and a man not so young were buttoning their overcoats and lighting their cigarettes. In the parlor behind them a soft contralto voice was lingering on the rich, deep notes of “Der Asra,” the sweetest song of Jewish inspiration, the song of Heine and of Rubinstein. They paused a moment as the voice died away in

The man not so young said: “Well, come along. What are you waiting for?”

Dear Jones: What the devil are you in such a hurry for, Uncle Larry? It looked abominably rude to leave those people in that way!

III. THE THIRD CONVERSATION.

Tuesday, May 30, 1882.

As the first band of the Decoration Day procession struck up “Marching through Georgia” and marched past Uncle Larry’s house, a cheerfully expectant party filed out of the parlor windows upon the broad stone balcony, draped with the flag that had floated over the building for the four long years the day commemorated. Uncle Larry had secured the Duchess to matronize the annual gathering of young friends, the final friendly meeting before the flight out of town; and many of those who accepted him as the universal uncle had accepted also this invitation. Dear Jones and Baby Van Rensselaer were seated in the corner of the balcony that caught the southern sun, Baby Van Rensselaer, in Uncle Larry’s own study chair, while Dear Jones was comfortably and gracefully perched on the broad brown-stone railing of the balcony.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Now, doesn’t that music make your heart leap?

Dear Jones: M’—yes.

Baby Van Rensselaer: You know I haven’t the least bit of sympathy with that affected talk about not being moved by these things, and thinking it vulgar and all that. I’m proud to say I love my country, and I do love to see my country’s soldiers. Don’t you?

Dear Jones: M’—yes.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Of course, I can’t really remember anything about the war, but I try to pretend to myself that I do remember when I was held up at the window to see the troops marching back from the grand review at Washington. (Rather more softly.) Mama told me about it often before she died. And “Marching through Georgia” always makes the tears come to my eyes; don’t it yours?

Dear Jones: M’—yes.

Baby Van Rensselaer: “Yes!” How queerly you say that!

Dear Jones (grimly): I’m rather more inclined to cry when the band makes

Baby Van Rensselaer (coldly): I’m afraid, Mr. Jones, I do not understand you. And you appear to have a very peculiar feeling about these things.

Dear Jones [rather absently]: Well, yes, it is rather a matter of feeling with me. Weak, I suppose—but the fact is, Miss Van Rensselaer, it just breaks me up to see all this. You know, the war hit me pretty hard. I lost my brother in hospital after Seven Pines—and then I lost my father, the best friend I ever had, at Gettysburg, on the hill, you know, when he was leading his regiment, and his men couldn’t make him stay back. So, you see, I wouldn’t have come here at all to-day if—if—

Baby Van Rensselaer: Oh, Mr. Jones, I’m so sorry.

Dear Jones [surprised]: Sorry? Why?

Baby Van Rensselaer: I didn’t quite understand you—but I do now. Why, you’re taking off your hat. What is it? Oh, the battle-flags!

Dear Jones: My father’s regiment.

Baby Van Rensselaer [to herself]: I wonder if that is the regiment I saw coming back from Washington?

IV. THE FOURTH CONVERSATION.

Tuesday, August 22, 1882.

The train rattled hotly along on its sultry journey from one end of Long Island to the other, a journey the half of which it had nearly accomplished with much fuss and fret. Leaving his impediments of travel in the smoker, Dear Jones entered the forward end of the parlor car in search of an uncontaminated glass of water. As he set down the glass he glanced along the car, and his manner changed at once. He opened the door for an instant and threw on the down track his half-smoked cigarette; and then, smiling pleasantly, he walked firmly down the car, past a rustic bridal couple, and took a vacant seat just in front of Baby Van Rensselaer.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Why, Mr. Jones!

Dear Jones: Why, Miss Van Rensselaer!

Baby Van Rensselaer: Who would have thought of seeing you here in this hot weather?

Dear Jones: Can I have this seat or is it that I mank at the convenances—as the French say?

Baby Van Rensselaer: It’s Uncle Larry’s chair—he’s gone back to talk to one of his vestrymen—he’s taking me to Shelter Island.

Dear Jones: Shelter Island? How long are you going to stay there?

Baby Van Rensselaer: And where are you going?

Dear Jones: I’m going to Sag Harbor to build a house for one of my billionaires.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Sag Harbor? What an extraordinary place for a house.

Dear Jones: Oh, that’s nothing. Last year I had to build a house up in Chemung county.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Chemung?

Dear Jones [spelling it]: C-h-e-m-u-n-g´—accent on the mung. You probably call it Cheémung, but it is really Sh’mung.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Where is it? and how do you get there?

Dear Jones: By the Chemung de fer, of course.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Oh, Mr. Jones.

Dear Jones: You see, my mind is relaxed by the effort to build a house on the model of the one occupied by the old woman who lived in a shoe—and that variety of early English architecture is very wearing on the taste. What sort of a house is it you are going to at Shelter Island? And how long are you going to stay there?

Baby Van Rensselaer: Oh, it’s a stupid, old-fashioned place [pause]. Do you think that bride is pretty? I have been watching them ever since we left New York. They have been to town on their wedding-trip.

Dear Jones: She is ratherish pretty. And he’s a shrewd fellow and likely to get on. I shouldn’t wonder if he was the chief wire-puller of his “deestrick.”

Baby Van Rensselaer: A village Hampden?

Dear Jones: Some day he’ll withstand the little tyrant of the fields and lead a revolt against the garden-sass monopoly, and so sail into the legislature. I fear the bride is destined to ruin her digestion in an Albany boarding-house, while the groom gives his days and nights to affairs of state.

Here the train slackened its speed as it approached a small station from which shrill notes of music arose.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Look, the bride is going to leave us.

Dear Jones: He lives here, and the local fife and drum corps have come to welcome him home. Dinna ye hear that strident “Hail to the Chief,” they have just executed?

Baby Van Rensselaer: How proudly she looks up at him! I think the band ought to play something for her—but they are men, and they’ll never think of it.

Dear Jones: You cannot expect much tact from two fifes and a bass drum, but unless my ears deceive me they have greeted the bride with a well-meant attempt at “Home, Sweet Home.”

Baby Van Rensselaer:

Dear Jones [surprised]: Why—how did you know that poem?

Baby Van Rensselaer: Oh, I heard somebody quote it last Decoration Day—I don’t know who—it struck me as very pretty and I looked it up.

Dear Jones [pleased]: Oh, I remember. It has always been a favorite of mine.

Baby Van Rensselaer [coldly]: Indeed?

Dear Jones [as the train starts again]: Bride and groom, fife and drum, fade away from sight and hearing. I wonder if we shall ever think of them again?

Baby Van Rensselaer: I shall, I’m sure. She was so pretty. And, besides, the music was lively. I shan’t have anything half as amusing as that at Shelter Island.

Dear Jones: Don’t you like it, then?

Baby Van Rensselaer: Oh, dear no! I shall be glad to get away to my aunt’s place at Watch Hill. It’s very poky indeed, at Shelter Island (sighs). And to think that I shall have to spend just two weeks of primness and propriety there.

Dear Jones: Just two weeks? Ah!

V. THE FIFTH CONVERSATION.

Tuesday, September 5, 1882. (Afternoon.)

Although it is difficult to tell the length from the breadth of the small steamer that plies between Sag Harbor and New London, it is safe to assume that it was the bow that was pointing away from the Shelter Island dock as Baby Van Rensselaer stepped out of the cabin and Dear Jones walked up to her, lifting his hat with an expression of surprise on his face that might have been better, considering that he had rehearsed it a number of times since he left Sag Harbor.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Why, Mr. Jones!

Dear Jones [forgetting his lines, and improvising]: How—how—odd we should meet again just here. Funny, isn’t it?

Baby Van Rensselaer: It is exceedingly humorous.

Dear Jones: I did not tell you, did I!—when I saw you on the train, you know—that I had to go to New London, after I’d finished my work at Sag Harbor.

Baby Van Rensselaer [uncompromisingly]: I don’t think you said anything about New London at all.

Dear Jones: I probably said the Pequot House. It’s the same thing, you know. I have to go to New London to inspect the Race Rock lighthouse—you’ve heard of the famous lighthouse at Race Rock, of course.

Baby Van Rensselaer: I don’t think its fame has reached me.

Dear Jones: It’s a very curious structure, indeed. And, the fact is, one of my—my billionaires—wants a lighthouse. He has an extraordinary notion of building a lighthouse near his place on the seashore—a lighthouse of his own. Odd idea, isn’t it?

Baby Van Rensselaer: It is a very odd proceeding altogether, I should say.

Dear Jones: I suppose you mean that I am a very odd proceeding. Well, I will confess, and throw myself on your mercy. I did hope to meet you—and the Duch—Mrs. Martin. After two weeks of the society of billionaires, I think I’m excusable.… [A painful pause.] And I had to go to Race Rock, so I got off a day earlier than I had meant to, by cutting one of the turrets out of my original plan—he didn’t mind—there are eleven left—and—and—will you forgive me?

Baby Van Rensselaer: Really, I have nothing to forgive, Mr. Jones. I’ve no doubt my aunt will be very glad to see you.

Dear Jones: Ah—how is Mrs. Martin?

Baby Van Rensselaer: She is in the cabin. She is quite well at present; but she is always very nervous about sea-sickness, and she prefers to lie down. I must go in and sit with her.

Dear Jones [quickly]: Indeed—I didn’t know Mrs. Martin suffered from sea-sickness. She’s crossed the ocean so many times, you know. How many is it?

Baby Van Rensselaer: Six, I think.

Dear Jones: No; eight, isn’t it? I’m almost sure it’s eight.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Very possibly. But she is a great sufferer. I must go and see how she is.

Dear Jones: Yes, we’ll go. I want to see Mrs. Martin. One of the disadvantages of the summer season is that one can’t see the Duchess at regular intervals to exchange gossip.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Well, if you have any confidential gossip for the Duchess, I will wait here until you come out. I want to get all the fresh air possible, if I have to sit in the cabin for the rest of the trip.

Dear Jones [asserting himself]: Very well. I have the contents of four letters from Newport to pour into the Duchess’s ear. You know I was staying at the Hitchcocks’ for a fortnight, before I went to Sag Harbor.

He went into the stuffy little cabin, where the Duchess was lying on a bench, in a wilderness of shawls. Baby Van Rensselaer waited a good half-hour, but heard no sound of returning footsteps from that gloomy cave. Finally she went in to investigate, and was told by the Duchess that “Dear Jones has gone after, or whatever you call it, to smoke a cigar.” Baby Van Rensselaer made up her mind that under those circumstances she would go forward and read her book. She also made up her mind that Mr. Jones was extremely rude. His rudeness, she found, as she sat reading at the bow of the boat, really spoiled her book. She knew that she ought not to let such little things annoy her; but then, it was a very stupid chapter, and the fresh sea breeze blew the pages back and forward, and her veil would not stay over her hair, and she always had hated traveling, and it was so disagreeable to have people behave in that way—especially people—well, any people. Just here she turned her head, and saw Dear Jones advancing from the cabin with a bright and smiling face.

Baby Van Rensselaer [about to rise]: My aunt wants me, I suppose.

Dear Jones: Not at all—not in the least—at present. I just came through the cabin—on tiptoe—and she was fast asleep. In fact, not to speak it profanely, she was—she was audible.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Oh!

Dear Jones: I’m glad to see you’re getting the benefit of the fresh air.

Baby Van Rensselaer: I was afraid of waking my aunt with the rustling of the leaves of my book, so I came out here.

Dear Jones: I’m glad you did. It would be a shame for you to have to sit in that close cabin. That’s the reason I didn’t come back to you when I left Mrs. Martin. I played a pious fraud on you for the benefit of your health.

Baby Van Rensselaer: You were very considerate.

Dear Jones [enthusiastically]: Oh, not at all.

Baby Van Rensselaer [calmly]: And if you’ll excuse me, I’ll finish my book. I can’t read in the cabin.

Baby Van Rensselaer resumed her reading and found the book improved a little. After a while she looked up and saw Dear Jones sitting on the rail, meekly twirling his thumbs.

Baby Van Rensselaer [after an effort at silence]: Don’t be so ridiculously absurd. What are you doing there?

Dear Jones: I’m waiting to be spoken to.

Baby Van Rensselaer smiled. The boat had just swung out of the jaws of the bay. Overhead was the full glory of a sky which made one believe that there never was such a thing as a cloud. And they sped along over the sea of water in a sea of light. Just then there came from the depths under the cabin the rise and fall of a measured, mocking melody, high and clear as the notes of a lark.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Why, that must be a bird whistling—only birds don’t whistle “Amaryllis.”

Dear Jones: ’Tisn’t a bird—it’s an engineer.

Baby Van Rensselaer: An engineer?

Dear Jones: A grimy engineer. Quite a pathetic story, too. Some of the Sag Harbor people took him up as a boy. He had a wonderful ear and an extraordinary tenor voice. They were going to make a Mario of him. They paid for his education in New York, and then sent him over to Paris to the Conservatory to be finished off. And he hadn’t been there six weeks before he caught the regular Paris pleurisy—it’s an article de Paris, you know, and lost his voice utterly and hopelessly.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Oh!

Dear Jones: And so he had to come back and engineer for his living.

Baby Van Rensselaer: How very sad. Now I can scarcely bear to hear him whistle.

Dear Jones [to himself]: Well, I didn’t mean to produce that effect. [To her.] Oh, he doesn’t mind it a bit. Hear him now.

The engineer was executing a series of brilliant variations on the “Air du Roi Louis XIII.,” melting by ingenious gradations into the “Babies on our Block.”

Dear Jones [hastily]: Race Rock lies over that way. You can’t see it yet—but you will after a while.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Oh, then there is a Race Rock?

Dear Jones: Why, certainly.…

With this starter, it may readily be understood that a man of Dear Jones’s fecundity of intellect and fine imaginative powers was able to fill the greater part of the afternoon with fluent conversation. Two or three times Baby Van Rensselaer made futile attempts to go into the cabin to see how the Duchess was sleeping; but as many times she forgot her errand. There was a fair breeze blowing from the northeast, but the sea was smooth, and the little boat scarcely rocked on the long, low waves. It was getting toward four o’clock when there was a sudden stoppage of the engineer’s whistling, and of the machinery of the boat. Baby Van Rensselaer sent Dear Jones back to inquire into the cause, for they were alone on the broad sea, with only a tantalizing glimpse of New London harbor stretching out welcoming arms of green, with the Groton monument stuck like a huge clothes-pin on the left arm. Dear Jones came back, trying hard to look decently perturbed and gloomy, but with a barbarian joy lighting up his bronzed features.

Baby Van Rensselaer: What is it?

Dear Jones: The machinery is on a dead centre. And the whistling engineer says that he’ll have to wait until he can get into port and hitch a horse to the crank to start her off again.

Baby Van Rensselaer: But how are we to get into port?

Dear Jones: The whistling engineer further says that we are now drifting toward Watch Hill.

Baby Van Rensselaer: That’s just where we want to go.

Dear Jones: Yes. [An unholy toot from the steam whistle.] And there he is signalling that yacht to take us off!

Baby Van Rensselaer: I must go to my aunt now.

Dear Jones: Why—there’s no hurry.

Baby Van Rensselaer: No, but she’ll be so frightened—she’ll think it’s going to blow up or something.

Baby Van Rensselaer disappeared in the depths of the cabin. Dear Jones disconsolately walked the deck in solitary silence for five minutes. When Baby Van Rensselaer reappeared, his spirits rose.

Baby Van Rensselaer: My aunt is afraid you may have difficulty in reaching New London to-night. She wants me to ask you if you won’t stay over-night at her place at Watch Hill?

Dear Jones: Won’t I? Well, I will—have much pleasure in accepting your aunt’s invitation.

VI. THE SIXTH CONVERSATION.

Tuesday, September 5, 1882. (Evening.)

A row of Japanese lanterns shed a Cathayan light along the little path leading from the Duchess’s house on a rocky promontory to the little beach which nestled under its shoulder. The moon softly and judiciously lit up the baby breakers which in Long Island Sound imitate the surf of the outer sea. It threw eerie shadows behind the bath-houses, and fell with gentle radiance upon two dripping but shapely figures emerging from the water, where the other bathers were unwisely lingering.

Dear Jones: I think this is simply delightful. I really never got the perfect enjoyment of an evening swim before.

Baby Van Rensselaer: I am glad you enjoyed it.

Dear Jones: There is something so charming in this aristocratic seclusion, with the shouts and laughter of the vulgar herd just far enough off to be picturesque—if you can call a noise picturesque.

Baby Van Rensselaer [coldly]: I think this beach might be a little more private—it’s shared in common by these three cottages.

Dear Jones: But they seem to be very nice people here. And they all swim so well, it quite put me on my mettle. You are really a splendid swimmer, do you know it? And that girl I towed out to the buoy, who is she?

Baby Van Rensselaer [explosively]: Mr. Jones, this is positively insulting!

Dear Jones: Wh—what—wh—why? I don’t understand you.

Baby Van Rensselaer: To pretend that you don’t know that Hitchcock woman!

Dear Jones [innocently]: Was that Miss Hitchcock? I didn’t recognize her.

Baby Van Rensselaer: If this is your idea of humor, Mr. Jones, it is simply offensive!

Dear Jones: But, upon my soul, I didn’t know the girl—nor she me!

Baby Van Rensselaer: You didn’t know her? After you have been staying two weeks at her house at Newport?

Dear Jones [with something like dignity]: I was staying at her father’s house, Miss Van Rensselaer, and Miss Hitchcock was away on a visit.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Up the Saguenay, perhaps?

Dear Jones: Very likely. Miss Hitchcock may have left a large part of the Saguenay unexplored for all I know. I was introduced to her party only half an hour before we got off the boat at Quebec.

Baby Van Rensselaer: Long enough, however, to discover that she was “bright.”

Dear Jones: Quite long enough, Miss Van Rensselaer. One may find out a great deal of another’s character in half an hour.

There was a pause, which was filled by the strains of a Virginia reel, coming from one of the cottages high up on the bank, where an impromptu dance was just begun. The moonlight fell on Baby Van Rensselaer’s little white teeth, set firmly between her parted lips. The pause was broken.

Baby Van Rensselaer: If you propose to descend to brutality of this sort, Mr. Jones, I think we need prolong neither the conversation—nor the acquaintance.

Dear Jones [honestly]: No—you can’t mean that—Miss Van Rensselaer—Baby—

Baby Van Rensselaer: What, sir! Your familiarity is—I can’t stand familiarity from you! (She clenches her little hands.)

Dear Jones: You have no right to treat me like this. If I am familiar it is because I love you—and you know it!

Baby Van Rensselaer: This is the first I have heard of it, sir. I trust it will be the last. Will you kindly permit me to pass, or must I—

Dear Jones: You may go where you wish, Miss Van Rensselaer—No, come, this is ridiculous—

Baby Van Rensselaer: Is it?

Dear Jones: I mean it is foolish. Don’t let us—

Baby Van Rensselaer: Don’t let us see each other again!

VII. THE SEVENTH CONVERSATION.

Thursday, February 14, 1884.

As the soft, low notes of the wedding-march from “Lohengrin” fell gently from the organ-loft over the entrance of Grace Church, the quartet of able-bodied ushers passed up the centre aisle and parted the white ribbons—a silken barrier which they had gallantly defended for an hour in a vain effort to keep the common herd of acquaintance separate from the chosen many of the family. Behind them came two pretty little girls, strewing the aisle with white flowers from their aprons. The four bridesmaids, two abreast, passed up the aisle after the little girls, proud in their reflected glory. Then came the bride, leaning on Judge Gillespie’s arm, and radiant with youth and beauty and happiness. As the procession drew near the chancel-rail, the groom came from the vestry and advanced to meet her, accompanied by his best man, Uncle Larry, who relieved him of his hat and overcoat, the which he would dextrously return to him when the happy couple should leave the church man and wife. And in due time the Bishop asked, “Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife?”

Dear Jones: I will.

The Bishop asked again, “Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband?”

Baby Van Rensselaer: I will.

As they knelt at the altar the sun came out and fell through the window, and the stained glass sifted down on them the mingled hues of hope and of faith and love; and the Bishop blessed them.