"That," said he in her ear, "is genuine Boston culture."
She laughed softly, not in the least knowing what to say. The statue
meant nothing whatever to her, and had the original of Eutychides been
placed by its side she would have been unable to understand that in
copying it Stanton had transformed its dignity into clumsiness, its
grace into vulgarity. Had she been at home in New York, she would have
said frankly that she neither knew nor cared anything about the
_America_; being in Boston, she had a superstitious feeling that such
frankness would be ill-judged, and she therefore contented herself with
non-committal laughter.
"How do you do, Miss Merrivale?" at this moment said a cheery voice
close by her.
She looked up to see the merry eyes and corn-colored beard of Chauncy
Wilson.
"I say, Fred," went on the doctor, confidentially, "don't you think
this thing is beastly rubbish? It looks like an old grandmother wrapped
up in her bedclothes. And what has she got that toy village on her head
for?"
"Oh, Doctor Wilson!" exclaimed Miss Merrivale, in a manner that might
mean reproval or amusement.
Miss Frances was having a very good time. Although Mrs. Staggchase had
been throwing her guest and Rangely together for motives of her own,
the result to Miss Merrivale had been as pleasing as if her hostess had
been purely disinterested.
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