The Finer Grain by Henry James

There would have been a wonder for us meanwhile in his continued use, as it were, of his happy formula -- brought out to Cornelia Rasch within ten minutes, or perhaps only within twenty, of his having settled into the quite comfortable chair that, two days later, she indicated to him by her fireside. He had arrived at her address through the fortunate chance of his having noticed her card, as he went out, deposited, in the good old New York fashion, on one of the rococo tables of Mrs. Worthingham's hall. His eye had been caught by the pencilled indication that was to affect him, the next instant, as fairly placed there for his sake. This had really been his luck, for he shouldn't have liked to write to Mrs. Worthingham for guidance -- _that_ he felt, though too impatient just now to analyze the reluctance.

There was nobody else he could have approached for a clue, and with this reflection he was already aware of how it testified to their rare little position, his and Cornelia's -- position as conscious, ironic, pathetic survivors together of a dead and buried society -- that there would have been, in all the town, under such stress, not a member of their old circle left to turn to.