The hypersensitive creature sees in the common mass of his fellows only something that seeks to deny him, and either in fear of that antagonism or in the knowledge of his own imperfections he isolates and envelopes the real issue of his being—much as an oyster does with the irritant grain in its beard; only the outcome is seldom a pearl and not always as useful as a fish. Bugloss was still wholly enveloped, and his predicament gave a melancholy tone to his thoughts. He sat hunched in his chair until the dance ended and the two girls came back, bringing with them the lovely green-haired one!
“Hello, aunt,” she cried merrily enough, “why aren’t you in costume? Like my get-up?”
Without a word the elderly lady kissed her, and all sat down within a few feet of Bugloss. It thrilled him to hear her voice; at least he would be able to recognize that when she turned back again to daylight’s cool civilities.
“Did you know that I had blossomed out in business?” she was saying. Bugloss thought it a beautiful voice.
“I heard of it,” said her aunt, whom you may figure as a lady with a fan, eyeglasses, and the repellant profile of a bird of prey, “about half an hour ago. I wish I had heard of it before.”
“I am a full-blown modiste.”
“Yes, you might have told me.”
“But I have told you.”
“You might have told me before.”
“But I haven’t seen you before, aunt.”