"Tired out, Edna? Whom did you have? Many callers?" he asked. He
tasted his soup and began to season it with pepper, salt, vinegar,
mustard--everything within reach.
"There were a good many," replied Edna, who was eating her soup with
evident satisfaction. "I found their cards when I got home; I was out."
"Out!" exclaimed her husband, with something like genuine consternation
in his voice as he laid down the vinegar cruet and looked at her through
his glasses. "Why, what could have taken you out on Tuesday? What did
you have to do?"
"Nothing. I simply felt like going out, and I went out."
"Well, I hope you left some suitable excuse," said her husband, somewhat
appeased, as he added a dash of cayenne pepper to the soup.
"No, I left no excuse. I told Joe to say I was out, that was all."
"Why, my dear, I should think you'd understand by this time that people
don't do such things; we've got to observe les convenances if we ever
expect to get on and keep up with the procession. If you felt that you
had to leave home this afternoon, you should have left some suitable
explanation for your absence.
"This soup is really impossible; it's strange that woman hasn't learned
yet to make a decent soup. Any free-lunch stand in town serves a better
one. Was Mrs. Belthrop here?"
"Bring the tray with the cards, Joe. I don't remember who was here."
The boy retired and returned after a moment, bringing the tiny silver
tray, which was covered with ladies' visiting cards. He handed it to
Mrs. Pontellier.
"Give it to Mr. Pontellier," she said.
Joe offered the tray to Mr. Pontellier, and removed the soup.
Mr. Pontellier scanned the names of his wife's callers, reading some of
them aloud, with comments as he read.
"'The Misses Delasidas.' I worked a big deal in futures for their father
this morning; nice girls; it's time they were getting married. 'Mrs.
Belthrop.' I tell you what it is, Edna; you can't afford to snub Mrs.
Belthrop. Why, Belthrop could buy and sell us ten times over. His
business is worth a good, round sum to me. You'd better write her a
note. 'Mrs. James Highcamp.' Hugh! the less you have to do with Mrs.
Highcamp, the better. 'Madame Laforce.' Came all the way from Carrolton,
too, poor old soul. 'Miss Wiggs,' 'Mrs. Eleanor Boltons.'" He pushed the
cards aside.
"Mercy!" exclaimed Edna, who had been fuming. "Why are you taking the
thing so seriously and making such a fuss over it?"
"I'm not making any fuss over it. But it's just such seeming trifles
that we've got to take seriously; such things count."