Lydia wanted a long peacock-feather duster to dust the top
of the bookcase. I bought that. Our only long tablecloth was a damask,
engarlanded and diapered and resplendent with a colored border
warranted to wash. I had to buy napkins to go with it. I bought a
butter-knife to match a solid silver butter-dish, and a set of
individual salt-spoons to match salt-cellars, and nut-picks and
crackers to match something else. Moreover, there was a magnificent
opera-glass that required to be matched with theatre-going--_not_ as I
was wont to go, in an old overcoat having its pockets stuffed with old
playbills. But why enumerate?
On the strength of her wedding-presents Lydia became a gladiatrix in
the arena of society. She already belonged to three clubs: she joined
four more--Private Theatrical, a History of Art, a Conversation and a
Suffrage Club. I myself belong to but one, the Cremation Club--am an
officer in that: I split kindlings. As the bordered tablecloth was
suitable for lunch-parties, Lydia entertained her friends at an hour
when I was about town looking up paragraphs, but I have no doubt she
carried it off bravely, and their discussions were as important as
those of a poultry convention on the question of feathers or no
feathers on chickens' legs.
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