“It really makes us feel young again—­does it not, Mrs. Frump?—­to renew this charming custom of receiving and making calls.”

Mr. Overtop spoke in general terms, like a philosopher; whereas Mrs. Frump made a personal application of the remark to herself, and replied, rather coldly:  “I have no doubt that it makes old persons feel younger,” and then she looked at Matthew Maltboy, and seemed to be listening to the conversation between him and Miss Whedell.

Mr. Overtop paused a moment, and tried again:  “Is it not pleasant, though sad, Mrs. Frump, to think of the friends whom we knew many, many years ago, who no longer live to greet us on this festal day?” The speaker alluded to mankind at large.

Mrs. Frump responded tartly, that she could not speak from experience, of course, but she presumed that Mr. Overtop’s opinion was correct.  And again she glanced at Maltboy.

Mr. Overtop briefly rested, and then remarked: 

“It may be merely a poetical conceit of mine, but it seems to me that the horses prance higher, and shake their bells more merrily on New Year’s than any other day, as if they partook in our enjoyment of the occasion.  May not the horse, by some mysterious instinct, know that it is the beginning of the year?”

Mrs. Frump smiled, and answered:  “Not being a horse, of course I can’t say.  But I would suggest, whether ostlers do not give their animals an extra quantity of oats on New Year’s day, to make their action more stylish?”

Mr. Overtop marked a quizzical expression in the widow’s left eye, and was disgusted.

For the third time she looked intently at Matthew Maltboy, who was putting in a few words with great animation; and then turned her face toward Mr. Quigg, who was taking his third mental inventory of the furniture, and executing “Hail Columbia,” with variations, on his hat.

“It’s a finer New Year’s day than the last one, is it not, Mr. Quigg?”

Mr. Quigg, who had an astonishing memory for dates and conditions of the weather, replied, after a second’s reflection: 

“It is a much finer day, Mrs. Frump.  It rained last New Year’s.  Perhaps you may remember my leaving an umbrella at the house where you were then stopping, in Sixteenth street, and my calling for it again, on which occasion you said I reminded you of Paul Pry, in the play, who was always forgetting his umbrella.”

The widow laughed, and said that she distinctly remembered the circumstances.

Mr. Quigg, thus encouraged, went on: 

“New Year’s days differ very much.  The one before the last was very snowy in the forenoon, with hail in the afternoon; and the one before that was so mild, that I found an overcoat really uncomfortable.  The one before—­”

“Excuse me for the interruption,” said Mrs. Frump, suddenly, “but I can’t help saying how much Mr. Maltboy looks like Dr. Warts.  Doesn’t he, Clemmy?”