F. Colburn (Francis Colburn) Adams
Chapter 16
successively flaunts.
We have assured her of our standing in society. To which, with an
air of resumed confidence, and a quickened step, she says she has
(that is, she thinks she has) seen us before, and is glad to see us
again. She is getting well down in the role of years, has a
treacherous memory-the result of arduous business, and a life of
trouble-the poison of a war upon society-the excitement of seeking
revenge of the world. She cannot at all times trust her memory, for
it has given out in the watchfulness necessary to the respectability
of her house, which she regards as the Gibraltar from which she
turns upon society her unerring guns. "Lord, gentlemen," she says in
quick accents, "the reputation of this house-I watch it as our
senator to Congress does his-is my bank stock; and on the
respectability and behavior of my customers, who are of the first
families, depends my dividends. Madame Flamingo wouldn't-gentlemen,
I am no doubt known to you by reputation?-soil the reputation of her
house for uncounted gold." This she whispers, tripping nervously
over the soft carpet up the hall, until she reaches mid-way, where
on the right and left are two massive arched doors of black walnut,
with stained glass for fan-lights. Our guardian (she has assumed the
office) makes a significant motion with her left hand, which she
moves backward, places her right upon the porcelain knob, turns to
the right, and puts her ear inquiringly to the door. "It's a sort of
commonwealth; yes, sir, a commonwealth-but then they are all
gentlemen-some very distinguished," she continues, shaking her head
as if to caution us. Voices in loud conversation are heard in the
room to the right, while from out the left float the mellow notes of
a waltz, accompanied by the light tripping of feet.
With an urbane bow, and a familiar smile, Madame opens the door,
watches with an air of exultation the effect her
sumptuously-furnished parlors, and her more sumptuously-dressed
worshippers, have on our feelings. The great glare of Gothic