gone into. Such “women” (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell Mingott’s, and the latter had instantly rung the little bell at her elbow and ordered the coachman to drive her home. “What if it had happened to Mrs. van der Luyden?” people asked each other with a shudder. Archer could hear Lawrence Lefferts, at that very hour, holding forth on the disintegration of society.
He raised his head irritably when his sister Janey entered, and then quickly bent over his book (Swinburne’s Chastelard —just out) as if he had not seen her. She glanced at the writing-table heaped with books, opened a volume of the Contes Drôlatiques , made a wry face over the archaic French, and sighed: “What learned things you read!”
“Well—?” he asked, as she hovered Cassandra-like before him.
“Mother’s very angry.”
“Angry? With whom? About what?”
“Miss Sophy Jackson has just been here. She brought word that her brother would come in after dinner: she couldn’t say very much, because he forbade her to: he wishes to give all the details himself. He’s with cousin Louisa van der Luyden now.”
“For heaven’s sake, my dear girl, try a fresh start. It would take an omniscient Deity to know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s not a time to be profane, Newland. … Mother feels badly enough about your not going to church …”
With a groan he plunged back into his book.