At Mrs. Frostwinch's
one was less likely than in most houses to encounter socially doubtful
characters, a fact which Arthur Fenton, who was secretly flattered to
be invited here, had once remarked to his wife was an explanation of
the dulness of these entertainments.
For Mrs. Frostwinch's parties were apt to be anything but lively. One
was morally elevated by being able to look on the comely and high-bred
face of Mrs. Bodewin Ranger, but that fine old lady had a sort of
religious scruple against saying anything in particular in company, a
relic of the days of her girlhood, when cleverness was not the fashion
in her sex and when she had been obliged to suppress herself lest she
outshine the high-minded and courtly but dreadfully dull gentleman she
married.
One had here the pleasure of shaking one of the white fingers of Mr.
Plant, the most exquisite _gourmet_ in Boston, whose only daughter had
made herself ridiculous by a romantic marriage with a country farmer.
The Stewart Hubbards, who were the finest and fiercest aristocrats in
town, and whose ancestors had been possessed not only of influence but
of wealth ever since early colonial days, were old and dear friends of
Mrs. Frostwinch and always decorated her parlors on gala nights with
their benign presence. Mr. Peter Calvin, the leader of art fashions,
high priest of Boston conservatism, and author of numerous laboriously
worthless books, seldom failed to diffuse the aroma of his patronizing
personality through the handsome parlors of this hospitable mansion
when there was any reasonable chance of his securing an audience to
admire him; and in general terms the company was what the newspapers
call select and distinguished.
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