In answer to the announcement that Mrs. Stephen Morgan Fruffles will, on the afternoon of January 27, be at home from four to seven, all the world—with the exception of her husband, who keeps significantly out of the house, and at his club finds such solace as is possible under the circumstances—has assembled to celebrate that rare and exciting event.

The parlors are thronged almost to suffocation; the air is warm, and laden with a hundred odors, which combine to make it well-nigh unbreathable; the constant babble of conversation goes on with the steady click-clack of a mill-wheel, and several hundred people persistently talk without saying anything whatever.

Mrs. Chumley Jones is there, in a most effective, costume of garnet plush, adorned with some sort of long-haired black fur. She is conscious of being perfectly well dressed, of being the best-known woman in the parlors, and most of all is she now, as always, conscious of being the one and only Mrs. Chumley Jones. Soothed and sustained by an unfaltering trust in all these good things, she moves slowly through the rooms, or stands at some convenient coign of vantage, dropping a word to this one and to that, with just the right differences of manner fitted to the degrees of the people whom she addresses.

“My dear Mrs. Fruffles,” she remarks to the hostess, “you do always have such enchanting receptions!”

“Oh, thank you, dear Mrs. Jones,” responds the other, fully aware what is expected of her; “I wish I could begin to have anything so charming as your Fridays.”

“Oh, so kind of you to say so,” murmurs Mrs. Jones, with the expressive shake of the head proper to the sentiment and the occasion.

Then she passes on to her duty elsewhere.

“How do you do, Mrs. Jones?” the voice of Ferdinand Maunder says at her side. “Isn’t it a lovely day? It is really like a Roman winter; don’t you think so?”

“Yes, it really is, Mr. Maunder.”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been saying to myself all day.”

“It is so much nicer of you to say it to me.”

“Oh, Mrs. Jones, you are always so clever at turning things.”

They smile at each other with perfect and well-bred inanity for a second, and then Fred Lasceet slips in between them.

“How do you do, Mrs. Jones?”

“Oh, how do you do, Mr. Lasceet? It is ever so long since I have seen you.”

“So good of you to think it long. I am sure it seems an age to me.”

Mr. Maunder having meanwhile glided through the crowd with an eel-like elusiveness, Mrs. Chumley Jones is left with a remark upon which to form her conversation for the afternoon.

“We have had such a strange winter; don’t you think so, Mr. Lasceet? It is really like a Roman winter.”

“It really is; though I shouldn’t have thought of it. You are always so clever in thinking of things, Mrs. Jones.”

“You are a sad flatterer, Mr. Lasceet.”

Mr. Lasceet endeavors to look very sly and cunning, and while he gives his mind to this endeavor another slips into his place.

“How do you do, Mrs. Jones?” says Percival Drummond.

“Oh, how do you do, Mr. Drummond? I haven’t seen you for ever so long.”

Mr. Lasceet melts into the swaying background, and is seen no more.

“It really is not nice of you to say so, Mrs. Jones,” is Mr. Drummond’s response, “when I took you in to dinner at Mrs. Tiger’s night before last.”

“Oh, dear me; how stupid of me! I really fear I am losing my mind. It is the weather, I think. It is so like a Roman winter, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it is a little.”

“Oh, ever so much. How do you do, dear Mrs. Gray? I am delighted to see you. I was just saying to Mr. Drummond that it seems to me that our winter this year is so much like a Roman winter. Did you ever think of it?”

“Oh, my dear, I have thought of nothing else all winter. Why, it is just such a day as it was one afternoon two years ago when I was in Rome.”

“Were you in Rome year before last?” Mr. Drummond inquires, with the air of one to whom the answer of the question is of the most vital importance, although he asks only for the sake of being silent no longer.

“Yes, we went in October and stayed until March. You remember, Mrs. Jones, that we dined with you the very day before we sailed.”

“Why, yes, so you did. I had forgotten all about it. Are you going?”

“Yes, I really must go. I have three places more to call before I go home, and we are going out to dinner.”

“I shall see you if you dine at the Muchmen’s.”

“Oh, are you to be there? How lovely.”

“I hope to take one of you in,” Mr. Drummond says, with a smile of the most brilliant vacuity.

“Are you to be there, too? Why, it will be quite a reunion. Au revoir.”

The crowd swallows Mrs. Gray, and at the same moment Mr. Drummond is seized upon by a sharp-looking elderly female, who drags him off as if she were conveying him into some sly corner where she may devour him undisturbed. Mrs. Jones turns to move toward the other parlor.

At that moment she is accosted by a lady of an appearance so airy, both as regards dress and manner, as to suggest that she is a mislaid member of some ballet troupe.

“Why, how do you do?” she cried, with a vivacity quite in keeping with her appearance. “My dear Mrs. Jones, I haven’t seen you since I got back from Europe.”

“Why, Susie Throgmorton, is it really you? I didn’t know you were home.”

“That shows what an unimportant person I am.”

“Oh, I knew you came home from Europe, but I thought you were still in New York.”

“Oh, I only went on to see Aunt Dinah for a couple of days. I got caught in the most awful storm you ever saw.”

“But the winter,” Mrs. Chumley Jones observes, with an air of freshness and conviction which is something beautiful to see, “has been as mild as a Roman winter most of the time.”

“Yes, it has been like a Roman winter.”

The crowd separates them and they go their several ways, each repeating that it is like a Roman winter; but meanwhile the same observation is being scattered broadcast by Mr. Maunder, Mr. Lasceet, and Mr. Drummond, so that, although there are a good many people in the room, they are in a fair way of being all informed that the winter strongly resembles that of Rome; a statement which, if true, may be regarded as of the highest importance.

It is not until, entering the tea room, Mrs. Chumley Jones encounters Mrs. Quagget, who talks more rapidly than any other known woman, that she has anybody take the words out of her mouth; but before she can tell Mrs. Quagget that it is like a Roman winter, Mrs. Quagget has imparted that interesting information to her. It is all one, however, since something has been said by one of them; and Mrs. Chumley Jones is not in the least disconcerted. She still clings to the convenient remark, as she did not take the trouble to bring one with her, and this one suits her purpose admirably.

“My dear Miss Tarrart,” she exclaims, as she comes upon a wintry young lady of advanced stages of maturity, “how do you do? I haven’t seen you for an age.”

“Why, how do you do, Mrs. Jones?” is the response, delivered in a manner so emphatic as to convey the impression that the reason why Miss Tarrart is so odd-looking is because she has put so much energy into her greetings of her friends. “I am enchanted to see you. When do you go abroad? I am sure one might almost think they were abroad in this weather. It is so—”

“Yes,” Mrs. Jones interposes, taking the words out of her mouth; “I was just saying to Mrs. Quagget that this is really quite like a Roman winter; don’t you think so?”

“Yes, it is,” Miss Tarrart answers, with the air of one who has been beaten by unfair means. “It is like a Roman winter.”

“Why don’t you come and see me, Miss Tarrart? It really is not kind of you to stay away so long.”

“I am coming very soon; and you must come and see me.”

“Oh, yes; I am coming. Do you know which way Mrs. Fruffles is? I really must go.”

“She is in the other room.”

“Well, good-bye, dear.”

“Good-bye.”

The two separate, each thinking how fast the other is growing old. Mrs. Chumley Jones, feeling that she has now done her whole duty, does not even take the trouble any more to tell people that the winter is like a Roman one. She merely makes her way to the hostess.

“Good-bye,” she says. “One always has such lovely times at your house, Mrs. Fruffles.”

“Oh, it is so kind of you to say so, when your Fridays are so much pleasanter.”

“It is so kind of you to say so, my dear Mrs. Fruffles; but I am sorry to say that I cannot agree with you.”

“It is the weather partly,” the hostess observes; “so many people have said to me this afternoon that it seems like a Roman winter.”

“Yes, I was just thinking of that very thing. Well, good-bye, my dear. Be sure and come in on Friday.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

And as far as Mrs. Chumley Jones is concerned, Mrs. Stephen Morgan Fruffles ceases to be “At Home.”