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"Exactly eleven, Clemmy," said she.
"Gusty Frump," returned Miss Whedell, with some warmth, "you ought to be
ashamed of yourself! We have had fifty callers, to my certain
knowledge."
"I presume you are right," said Mrs. Frump, with a smile that irradiated
the whole of her fat face, and again imparted the idea that Miss Whedell
was wrong.
"For one," said Matthew Maltboy, improving the opportunity to put in a
word, "I should not be surprised to learn that you had a hundred."
Miss Whedell appreciated the delicate compliment, and beamed fascination
upon him.
"It has been a horrid, dreary winter, has it not, Mr. Maltboy?" said
she, in a tone that invited sympathy and confidence.
Mr. Maltboy, supposing that she alluded to the prevalent snow and ice of
the season, said that it certainly had.
"No balls, no opera--or none to speak of--no parties, no anything. You
will hardly believe it, Mr. Maltboy, but I declare I haven't been to
twenty parties this winter--have I, Gusty?"
"To only two that I know of," responded Mrs. Frump, in a winning voice.


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