Philip Henry Welch

“ Nell.—Hear, hear! A graduate, and she says "boss"—
Edith.—Oh, fudge; madame isn't around!
Nell.—It's a good thing she isn't, with these méringues in view.
Edith.—That baker is a darling.
Clara.—How does he get them in, anyway?
Nell.—Why, he has an extra tray quite at the bottom of his basket, that no one suspects.
Edith.—Yes; isn't it jolly? I wouldn't care a sou for the méringues if we were allowed to buy them.
Nell.—Edith, you are really depraved.
Edith.—Oh, I just love to be fast!
Clara.—Oh, girls; mama bought my graduation dress yesterday! ”

“ THE COMING GENERATION.
Come to me, O ye children, and whisper in my ear
What the birds and winds are singing in your sunny atmosphere.—Longfellow.
Isabel (aged ten) .—Oh, wait, Edith; we're going to the park, too! ”

“ Miss Featheredge.—Oh, but you know the dew falls at night.
Farmer Curtis.—Yes; it stays fallen, too, till the sun dries it off next day.
Miss Featheredge.—Oh, now, really! But how clear and limpid the air is—like new wine. ”

“ Nell.—And I—a saddle-horse.
Edith.—Isn't it just lovely to finish, anyway?
Clara.—Yes, indeed. I am just crazy to come out in society.
Nell.—It is such a satisfaction to feel there is nothing more to learn. ”

“ Young Mrs. Blasé.—Oh, dear, no. We should have bored one another to death!
Young Mrs. Ennui.—I know. I met Mr. Ennui out one night last week, and he proposed a trip to California by special car.
Young Mrs. Blasé.—It would have been horribly tiresome.
Young Mrs. Ennui.—Yes, indeed! I said: "Why, Harold, I should have to see you every day for a whole week!" ”

“ You are not the woman, physically, to be the society leader that you are. Your temperament is too sensitive, your nervous system too delicately organized to stand the strain. Other women do it? Of course they do, my dear madam, but other women are not you! ”

“ Mr. Tewksbury.—It's all the same. You shall not wear them.
Mrs. Tewksbury.—"Shall not" doesn't sound well, Mr. Tewksbury.
Mr. Tewksbury.—It means well, though. You are pinning them in your corsage now. ”

“ In any event, your début will be more brilliant than hers.
Miss Débutante.—Oh, do you think so?
Miss Thirdseason.—Yes, indeed. It handicaps a girl fearfully to come out with an elder sister, not even engaged.
Miss Débutante.—I suppose it does.
Miss Thirdseason.—Oh, my, yes! Then your family connection is so large. You'll have plenty of dinners, teas, and routs given for you, and that brings the men to the coming-out party, you know.
Miss Débutante.—Does it?
Miss Thirdseason.—Yes, indeed. They'll be out in full force to-night. On general principles, a girl's début is apt to be successful. ”

“ De Lyle.—Oh, Miss Pompon, that penance would be quite too dreadful.
Miss Pompon.—Do you stay for the cotillon?
Mr. De Lyle.—Oh, no, indeed!
Miss Pompon.—Nor we. We go directly after supper.
Mr. De Lyle.—Oh, so do I, you know.
Miss Pompon.—I told mama it was quite too much to expect us to stay for the cotillon.
Mr. De Lyle.—Oh, quite, you know. Supper must be served by now; may I—
Miss Pompon.—Yes, you may take me down, and remember, Mr. De Lyle, you are not to be quite so awfully funny. ”

“ Louise.—Oh, no; and it relieves Rupert's gums so much, dear little soul! He is teething so hard now!
Helen.—Baby seems very restless when I am giving him his bath. I think it is his teeth.
Louise.—Very likely. Rupert never cries when I bathe him. I give him a good meal, and—
Helen.—Oh, Louise—why, Baby is never bathed until half an hour after he is fed.
Louise (impressively) .—My dear, you must stop that at once! My book, "Advice to Young Mothers," says a child should never be bathed while hungry. ”

“ Second Artist.—Oh, yes—and breadth!
First Artist.—Do look at the gaping crowd before that huge canvas over there!
Second Artist.—I see. That's what discourages true art—the utter want of discrimination in the public. ”

“ Helen.—Oh, but you know Doctor Mollycoddle, in his "Nursery Talks," expressly prohibits bathing a child on a full stomach—
Louise.—Experience is the best teacher, and Rupert is nine months old, and is always fed before his bath.
Helen.—Oh, I could never think of such a thing. Baby might have a convulsion!
Louise.—I should be much more afraid of Rupert's going into a convulsion from over-fatigue and restlessness if he were bathed when hungry—
Helen.—Oh, I don't think so. Baby is as good as a little kitten, always. ”

“ Isabel.—Oh, but you know, Edith, Jack's papa has got lots and lots of money—trillions, I guess; and they live in a lovely house on Madison Avenue.
Edith.—Well, Jack can't dance as well as Harry.
Isabel.—But it really isn't proper to dance with Harry; mama says so. Don't you want to be proper?
Edith.—I don't know.
Isabel.—Besides they don't keep a carriage—and perhaps his mama isn't a lady, you know.
Edith.—I know how we can tell.
Isabel.—How?
Edith.—We'll ask Harry if she's got a camel's-hair shawl; because mama says that no real lady can be without one. ”

“ Jack Cavendish.—Well, really, the old party is making rather an exhibition of himself, you know, with the widow!
Young Mrs. Mariée.—Of course he is; and that's what Mrs. Lightmourning is leading him on for.
Jack Cavendish.—I don't quite follow.
Young Mrs. Mariée.—She wants to spoil Mrs. Grundy's dinner if possible.
Jack Cavendish.—Oh, do enlighten me!
Young Mrs. Mariée.—Why, Mrs. Grundy has not even given her a place at Mr. Grundy's left.
Jack Cavendish.—And does she want it?
Young Mrs. Mariée.—Unquestionably! They have quite an "affair" on just now, you know! ”

“ Mrs. Gilliflower.—Humph! Her tongue is as long as her neck. She thinks, by the way, that you write society gossip for the Weekly Jenkins.
Mrs. Smith (coloring) .—I? What presumption!
Mrs. Gilliflower.—Yes; I told her it was quite impossible you could do such a thing.
Mrs. Smith.—Oh!⁠ (dryly.) ⁠You were very kind!
Mrs. Gilliflower.—She quite insisted, though!
Mrs. Smith.—Like Mr. Baldhead, your vis-a-vis, when I endeavored to convince him what folly it was to suppose you did the personals for the Saturday Gossip.
Mrs. Gilliflower (angrily) .—Mr. Baldhead is a meddlesome old stupid! ”

“ Mr. Galant (at the end of the hand) .—You had good trump cards, Mrs. Bland. I presume you did not notice my trump signal?
Mrs. Bland.—Oh, I had forgotten all about that. I must watch next time!
Miss Fichu.—Oh, is it my lead again? Let me see—"when in doubt lead trumps."
Young Darby (approvingly) .—A very good play, Miss Fichu.
Mrs. Bland.—But the trick is ours with my ace. Now, (fingering a card,) you led me something, Mr. Galant. What in the world was it?
Mr. Galant (whose misgivings have become certainties) .—I can hardly tell you that, you know. ”

“ Miss Gushington (who goes in for fascinating ignorance) .—Oh, how charming this is! Fancy owning such a coach and such lovely horses, too!
Mr. Tandem.—Yes; one needs the horses, for a fact.
Miss Gushington.—Oh, yes—and they are such beauties, too—I just love these bays next to us!
Mr. T.—You mean the wheelers—they're chestnuts, though—
Miss G.—Oh, are they? I never can tell the difference; and, oh, are they off or nigh?
Mr. T.—Why, one, you know, is off, and the other nigh. ”

“ Nell.—My brothers, and papa and mama each send me a bouquet, and Sister May's fiancé says nothing short of a basket will satisfy him.
Clara.—Each one of my cousins will send me a bouquet; and, of course, papa and mama.
Edith.—Well, I am going straight to Klunder's, and order as many as I want.
Clara.—Oh, I wouldn't do that for anything!
Edith.—Why not? It's no worse than boning everyone you know for them. ”

“ Blessed is he who hath found his work; let him ask no other blessedness. He has a work, a life purpose; he has found it and will follow it.—Carlyle.
Fan.—Oh, Nan, how do you do?
Nan.—Do? I don't do at all. I am just worn out.
Fan.—So am I. I haven't energy enough to tell the truth.
Nan.—And it is so much easier to fib, isn't it? ”

“ Do you know I have just been telling mama I feel so travelled already!
Mr. Callow.—Oh, come now, you know.
Miss Gushington.—But I really do. Oh, mama, I am going with Mr. Callow to see the luggage lowered. It's all so awfully interesting. ”

“ Drive very rapidly, Michael, to — Fifth Avenue!
[Jumps into coupé, and the horses clatter down the block with such a noise and dash that half the neighbors are brought to their windows—desired effect.] ”

“ Mr. T.—Violin!!!
Mrs. T. (calmly) .—Yes; don't rouse the household. The piano is so very common.
Mr. T.—Indeed!
Mrs. T.—Yes; it is so much more effective to have some unique musical accomplishment—like playing the violin, zither, or banjo.
Mr. T.—Banjo! Good gracious! I suppose I ought to be grateful for the violin if it has saved me from the banjo.
Mrs. T.—I thought seriously of the banjo, but Arabella's arm is so lovely I decided in favor of the violin.
Mr. T.—Well, it strikes me Belle shows her arm enough every night, without going to an expense of sixty dollars to further display it. ”

“ Miss Carlton-Pell.—What are you going to do at Klunder's?
Mrs. Carlton-Pell.—I want to order a basket of roses sent to Mrs. Connaisseur. She is not very well.
Miss Carlton-Pell.—Why, she was at the Van Ren wick dinner two nights ago.
Mrs. Carlton-Pell.—Yes, I know; but she is enough indisposed to warrant the attention, and I want some of her pictures for our Loan Exhibition.
Miss Carlton-Pell.—Oh, I see. A wheel within a wheel.
Mrs. Carlton-Pell.—Of course. You don't suppose, my dear, I would send that tiresome woman twenty-five dollars' worth of flowers otherwise, do you? ”

“ Mrs. Bland.—I wish I might. I'll follow your example, and solve my doubt in trumps.
Young Darby.—How charming of you, Mrs. Bland; I was so hoping you might.
Mrs. Bland.—Oh, Mr. Darby, did you want it? ”

“ X. nothing but an ocean trip will revive me this Lent.
Mrs. B.—Do you think you will go over?
Mrs. X.—Not over, but down. To Nassau, probably.
Mrs. B.—Anywhere, to rest. I tell Mr. B. when one's visiting list is as large as mine, it really needs the strength of a Hercules to keep up with the round.
Mrs. X.—Doesn't it? Mrs. Y. said to me the other day: "Wait till your daughter grows up, and then you'll know what a real winter's work is." ”

“ Curtis, the milkmaid—
Farmer Curtis.—She ain't hurt, She got out of the way. She knows Brindle through and through.
Miss Featheredge.—But, Mr. Curtis—another shattered idol; she's cross-eyed, and forty, at least.
Farmer Curtis.—Brindle?
Miss Featheredge.—Milkmaid.
Farmer Curtis.—Nearer fifty; but she's mighty useful. Brindle cuts up that caper about once a week. I'll beef her next winter. That's a fine young heifer yonder.
Miss Featheredge.—Oh, yes, lovely! You mean the one with dark spots?
Farmer Curtis.—Yes.
Miss Featheredge.—And a heifer, I suppose, is a—a—he-cow? ”

“ Mrs. Gilliflower.—I congratulate you. You have at least one desirable old family upon your list of acquaintances.
Mrs. Smith.—Old family—pshaw! But don't let us quarrel over the De Longuevilles—they are not worth it; it's an open secret, as you very well know, that their only hope now is to marry Eleanor to a fortune.
Mrs. Gilliflower.—Perhaps your informant on that score is Jane Midas. Her brother is fairly grovelling at Eleanor's feet. ”

“ You'll have to put on the brakes for a while! It's all very well to be a brilliant young lawyer; but it's all very ill to be a brilliant young lawyer at the expense of your health. Think you smoke too much? ”

“ Edith.—That's so, for mama told Sister May the Wilmots would never get into society through coming into our church, for they were out of the middle aisle.
Isabel.—I don't suppose the other people will go to heaven at all, do you?
Edith.—I don't know—but the minister only preaches to us in the middle aisle, for I've watched him lots of times. Isn't our rector just lovely?
Isabel.—Yes; he eats dinner with us nearly every Sunday.
Edith.—Well, he comes to our house for five o'clock tea, lots of Sundays, too. ”

“ I find that I enjoy those operas best where the ballet divertissement is wanting—and yet I am no prude.
Professor X. (glancing at her corsage and shoulder straps) .—I am sure of that, Mrs. Societe. You are a woman of too liberal natural endowments to be a prude. ”

“ Miss Pompon.—Ye-es: the groom's is nothing much.
Miss Décolletée.—A pearl cross—quite churchy and touching.
Miss Pompon.—Very small pearls; I thought it quite a skimpy affair.
Miss Décolletée.—It was really rich, do you know, to hear Mrs. Carlton go on.
Miss Pompon.—Oh, I suppose so.
Miss Décolletée.—The day I was over there she came in with such an air. "Eleanor, my dear," she said, "don't fatigue yourself over that embroidery." Then she turned to me: "She has so much before her, you know; to-night is the church rehearsal, and afterward Mrs. Clarke gives a supper to the bridal-party." ”

“ Tewksbury.—The soup was execrable.
Mrs. Tewksbury.—Baron Vendredi spoke specially of it, and asked if our chef was a cordon bleu.
Mr. Tewksbury.—Did he? That's rich! I forgive the soup. What did you say? ”

“ T.—Arabella's prospects are not quite so flattering. The dear girl is so fastidious.
Mr. T.—Belle is a little fool.
Mrs. T.—Why, how can you say so?
Mr. T.—Because it is so. Fastidious, indeed! Do you know the way she judges a young man? ”

“ Talcott says it's vulgar not to be able to do anything without the men.
Edith.—She didn't think so last Lent, before her daughter caught Fred Noodle.
Arabella.—No, indeed; they were asked every evening.
Edith.—Well, Friday is a gala day. I've got an awfully fetching little chatelaine, with hanging ribbons that hold thimble, scissors, and emery cases, and a tiny needle-book.
Arabella.—How lovely! You should see my new apron; it is trimmed with Valenciennes and heliotrope feather-edge rosettes—awfully Frenchy!
Edith.—I want to see it. Oh, horrors! Mrs. Talcott is going to read ”

“ I do—the lights, you know, and the ballet and—and the pretty girls in the boxes.
Miss Débutante (stacking her fan and shaking it playfully) .—Oh, you men are so amusing!
Young Mr. Callow (delighted to be taken for a man) .—Oh, no, really, 'pon honor. ”

“ Groom's Mother (with crushing sweetness) .—Dear Mrs. Carlton has talked so much about their relatives in the Navy. He must be them—I don't see any others.
Groom's Sister (married) .—Mama, I don't think Lander is to play tonight at the house.
Groom's Mother (sharply) .—Why?
Sister.—I asked Nell, to-day, how many of Lander's men would be there, and she was quite embarrassed; said she didn't know, as "Papa arranged all that."
Groom's Mother.—I shall be mortified to death. The least they can do, marrying their daughter as brilliantly as they are, is to give her a perfectly appointed wedding. ”