"Bingle is such a hopelessly common name," she said.

"It happens to be a proper name," remarked Mr. Force, resorting to a
rather lame sort of wit.

"If it only had been Mrs. Bransone or Mrs. Mortimer," she sighed.
"They are awfully smart, don't you know. One meets them everywhere."

"We couldn't have sold that piece of land to either one of 'em," said
he. "They are much too smart for that."

Mr. Bingle erected a very costly and magnificent house, much against
his will, and spent a great deal of time thereafter in wishing that he
was back in the five-room apartment where he could put his hand on
anything he wanted without having to call for a servant to tell him
where to find it. He was so stupendously rich and so completely awed
by the importance of being acquainted with Mrs. Force that he became a
most desirable neighbour, from that lady's point of view. She
experienced a great deal of pleasure in association with a man who
could be made to feel as small as he gave every sign of being when in
her august presence. It was really a joy to her. With all his money,
he could not induce his wife's gowns to hang as Mrs. Force's hung; he
could not make her boots fit as neatly, nor her hats sit as naturally;
he could not buy style or majesty for Mrs. Bingle. So he was the kind
of neighbour to have. Any woman will tell you that.

Diggs was telling Watson, the footman, just where to put the
mistletoe. Watson's position was precarious. He was at the top of a
step-ladder, struggling to reach the lowest crystal pendant on the