The visit had spun out nearly three minutes, now.  Both ladies rose with grave dignity, conferred upon Laura a formal invitation to call, aid then retired from the conference.  Laura remained in the drawing-room and left them to pilot themselves out of the house—­an inhospitable thing, it seemed to her, but then she was following her instructions.  She stood, steeped in reverie, a while, and then she said: 

“I think I could always enjoy icebergs—­as scenery but not as company.”

Still, she knew these two people by reputation, and was aware that they were not ice-bergs when they were in their own waters and amid their legitimate surroundings, but on the contrary were people to be respected for their stainless characters and esteemed for their social virtues and their benevolent impulses.  She thought it a pity that they had to be such changed and dreary creatures on occasions of state.

The first call Laura received from the other extremity of the Washington aristocracy followed close upon the heels of the one we have just been describing.  The callers this time were the Hon. Mrs. Oliver Higgins, the Hon. Mrs. Patrique Oreille (pronounced O-relay,) Miss Bridget (pronounced Breezhay) Oreille, Mrs. Peter Gashly, Miss Gashly, and Miss Emmeline Gashly.

The three carriages arrived at the same moment from different directions.  They were new and wonderfully shiny, and the brasses on the harness were highly polished and bore complicated monograms.  There were showy coats of arms, too, with Latin mottoes.  The coachmen and footmen were clad in bright new livery, of striking colors, and they had black rosettes with shaving-brushes projecting above them, on the sides of their stove-pipe hats.

When the visitors swept into the drawing-room they filled the place with a suffocating sweetness procured at the perfumer’s.  Their costumes, as to architecture, were the latest fashion intensified; they were rainbow-hued; they were hung with jewels—­chiefly diamonds.  It would have been plain to any eye that it had cost something to upholster these women.

The Hon. Mrs. Oliver Higgins was the wife of a delegate from a distant territory—­a gentleman who had kept the principal “saloon,” and sold the best whiskey in the principal village in his wilderness, and so, of course, was recognized as the first man of his commonwealth and its fittest representative.

He was a man of paramount influence at home, for he was public spirited, he was chief of the fire department, he had an admirable command of profane language, and had killed several “parties.”  His shirt fronts were always immaculate; his boots daintily polished, and no man could lift a foot and fire a dead shot at a stray speck of dirt on it with a white handkerchief with a finer grace than he; his watch chain weighed a pound; the gold in his finger ring was worth forty five dollars; he wore a diamond cluster-pin and he parted his hair behind.  He had always