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Updated: May 4, 2025
So he went forth to bring in more game, and he read no poetry these days. The calm male observer might marvel at Bessie's elation over the prospect of sitting in Mrs. Anstruthers Leason's box at the performance of "Faust" given by the French Opera Company on tour. But no candid woman will.
"Does he come from a farm?" one woman murmured indignantly. "Such gros mots!" She too had been listening to the story of adultery at Mrs. Lawton's end of the table. Isabelle, who had taken in the whole situation from her husband's shocked face, Nan Lawton's sly giggle over the salacious tidbit, and Mrs. Leason's offended countenance, felt that she must shriek to relieve her feelings.
"It isn't the portrait, it's the sort of thing it brings with it. You met him, I suppose?" "Yes; dined with him at Mrs. Leason's last week." "I thought so. That's the beginning of his end." "You silly! Art has always been parasitic, why shouldn't the young man go to pleasant people's houses and have a good time and be agreeable and get them to buy his pictures?"
She was one of the board of governors for the Society of Country Homes for Girls, and here and on the Orphanage board she met energetic and well-bred young married women, who apparently genuinely preferred their charities, their reading clubs, the little country places where they spent the summers, to the glory of Mrs. Anstruthers Leason's opera box or dinner dance.
"Live," Fosdick replied enigmatically. "We all live." "Very few do." "You mean emotional heart experiences, like Nan's affairs? ... Sometimes I wonder if that wouldn't be interesting. But it would give John such a shock! ... Well, here are the pictures. There's Mrs. Leason's portrait, flatters her, don't you think?"
Isabelle, divided between a desire to laugh and a very vivid sense of Mrs. Leason's feelings, rose, but Fosdick had not finished and she sat down again.
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