Free The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton

revealed.
    The matter-of-course tone of Mrs. Trenor’s greeting deepened her irritation. If one did drag one’s self out of bed at such an hour and come down fresh and radiant to the monotony of note-writing, some special recognition of the sacrifice seemed fitting. But Mrs. Trenor’s tone showed no consciousness of the fact.
    â€œOh, Lily, that’s nice of you,” she merely sighed across the chaos of letters, bills, and other domestic documents which gave an incongruously commercial touch to the slender elegance of her writing-table.
    â€œThere are such lots of horrors this morning,” she added, clearing a space in the centre of the confusion and rising to yield her seat to Miss Bart.
    Mrs. Trenor was a tall, fair woman whose height just saved her from redundancy. Her rosy blondness had survived some forty years of futile activity without showing much trace of ill-usage except in a diminished play of feature. It was difficult to define her beyond saying that she seemed to exist only as a hostess, not so much from any exaggerated instinct of hospitality as because she could not sustain life except in a crowd. The collective nature of her interests exempted her from the ordinary rivalries of her sex, and she knew no more personal emotion than that of hatred for the woman who presumed to give bigger dinners or have more amusing house-parties than herself. As her social talents, backed by Mr. Trenor’s bank-account, almost always assured her ultimate triumph in such competitions, success had developed in her an unscrupulous good nature toward the rest of her sex, and in Miss Bart’s utilitarian classification of her friends, Mrs. Trenor ranked as the woman who was least likely to “go back” on her.
    â€œIt was simply inhuman of Pragg to go off now,” Mrs. Trenor declared as her friend seated herself at the desk. “She says her sister is going to have a baby—as if that were anything to having a house-party! I’m sure I shall get most horribly mixed up and there will be some awful rows. When I was down at Tuxedo I asked a lot of people for next week, and I’ve mislaid the list and can’t remember who is coming. And this week is going to be a horrid failure too—and Gwen Van Osburgh will go back and tell her mother how bored people were. I didn’t mean to ask the Wetheralls—that was a blunder of Gus’s. They disapprove of Carry Fisher, you know. As if one could help having Carry Fisher! It was foolish of her to get that second divorce—Carry always overdoes things—but she said the only way to get a penny out of Fisher was to divorce him and make him pay alimony. And poor Carry has to consider every dollar. It’s really absurd of Alice Wetherall to make such a fuss about meeting her when one thinks of what society is coming to. Some one said the other day that there was a divorce and a case of appendicitis in every family one knows. Besides, Carry is the only person who can keep Gus in a good humour when we have bores in the house. Have you noticed that all the husbands like her? All, I mean, except her own. It’s rather clever of her to have made a specialty of devoting herself to dull people—the field is such a large one, and she has it practically to herself. She finds compensations, no doubt—I know she borrows money of Gus—but then I’d pay her to keep him in a good humour, so I can’t complain, after all.”
    Mrs. Trenor paused to enjoy the spectacle of Miss Bart’s efforts to unravel her tangled correspondence.
    â€œBut it isn’t only the Wetheralls and Carry,” she resumed with a fresh note of lament. “The truth is, I’m awfully disappointed in Lady Cressida Raith.”
    â€œDisappointed? Hadn’t you known her before?”
    â€œMercy, no—never saw her till yesterday. Lady Skiddaw sent her over with letters to the Van Osburghs, and I heard that Maria Van Osburgh