Clemence | Page 4

as we have got it, who's
a better right to put themselves in the front ranks? If I've got a house in
the most aristocratic portion of the city, plenty of well-trained servants,
a stylish turnout, costly jewels, laces and brocades, I wonder if I ain't as
good as my neighbor, especially if my husband can boast of millions
where her's can thousands--dollars where her's can shillins'?"
"Why, Mrs. Brown," drawled a voice which had before been silent,
"your husband made his money in a vulgar grocery; your father was a
poor man, while your fair neighbor inherited her vast wealth. That

splendid mansion was a gift from papa, those well-trained servants
have been in the service of her family since my lady was a mere child,
and have been accustomed to wait upon and obey the slightest wish of
their imperious mistress, until they have grown to regard her as of a
higher order of being from themselves--a sort of delicate porcelain,
while they are only common crockery for kitchen service. All perfectly
proper, you know!"
The last speaker was a languid blonde, with a profusion of airy ringlets
fluttering around her thin face, which, judging by appearances, must
have been fanned by the zephyrs of innumerable May-days, equally as
bright and beautiful as the one that on the present occasion had aroused
her to the unwonted exertion of dressing and appearing in the parlor of
her dearest friend, to display a new, tasteful spring suit, of a delicate
blue, suitable to the complexion of the lady it adorned.
A self-complacent smile curled her thin lips, as she quietly noted the
effects of her somewhat lengthy speech. Like all efforts of an
unexpected and startling nature it produced a decided sensation. The
little lady in brocade and diamonds glared at her like a fury--her stately
hostess bridled, tossed her head, and gave one or two short, sharp,
hysterical giggles.
"Why, Cynthia," she exclaimed, "you are in charming spirits! Mr.
Underwitte must have proposed at last."
Miss Cynthia playfully held up her parasol to conceal her blushes.
"As if I were going to tell if he did! Now, really, Mrs. Brown, what
would you say to having me for a neighbor at some not distant day in
the place of those insufferable Graystones? Do you think I could do the
honors of the mansion gracefully, or should I suffer from the
comparison with the fair descendant of the Leveridges? By the way, do
you think she will continue to pride herself upon her lofty descent in
the future, as she has done in the past? She must have enough of the
subject by this time, I think! he! he! he!"
There was a shrill chorus of laughter, which a deep, tragic voice

interrupted with the question--
"What are you all so merry about?" and a figure, in bombazine and
rusty crape, stood before them, which was hailed successively by three
voices, a cracked soprano, Mrs. Crane--a high-keyed treble, Miss
Cynthia, and a little gasp or gurgle from Mrs. Brown, the lady in
brocade, as, "Mrs. Linden!" "My dear creature!" and "That angel
Alicia!" and any amount of kissing and shaking of hands, then a
general resuming of seats, and the question again asked, "What were
you all so merry about, that you did not hear me ring?"
"One of Cynthia's witty speeches," replied the lady of the house, and
after they had had another laugh, and Miss Cynthia had simpered and
shook her curls affectedly, the new-comer proceeded to give the latest
version of the Graystone's downfall and subsequent misfortunes.
"All gone by the board, a regular crash, and nothing left to tell the tale."
"A clear, out and out failure."
"And all come from signing for that rascally Sanderson."
"I knew he was a slippery rogue."
"Good enough for Graystone."
"Served him right for being such a fool."
These, and similar uncomplimentary epithets, indiscriminately applied
by the assembled ladies, proved what a choice morsel this was
considered that had so unexpectedly fallen to their share.
"What will become of the family, I wonder?" queried Mrs. Crane. "It
was bad enough to lose the money, but now that Graystone's gone, I do
not see what them two helpless women are going to do?"
"Live on their connections, most likely," snapped little Mrs. Brown, "of
course they won't work."

"No, I do not believe that," was the reply. "They are too independent.
At present, I believe, they have taken rooms in an obscure part of the
city. I guess they do not know what to do themselves."
"It must have been hard to part with everything that was dear to them
by association, for I hear that they gave up everything, even Clemence's
piano, to pay debts."
There was a pitying tone in the