"He says, mamma, that it is too great an honor to be your son."
From her yesterday's couch of mental travail Miss Meyerburg had risen with a great radiance turping out its ravages. She was Sheban in elegance, the velvet of her gown taken from the color of the ruby on her brow, and the deep-white flesh of her the quality of that same velvet with the nap raised.
"He wants to kiss your hand, ma. Give it to him. No, the right one, dearie."
"I—I'm much obliged, Marquis. I—well, for one little old woman like me, I got now six sons and six daughters, each one big enough to carry me off under his arm. Not?"
She was met with immediate acclaim from a large blond daughter-in-law, her soft, expansive bosom swathed in old lace caught up with a great jeweled lizard.
"Little old nothing, ma. I always say to Isadore you've got more energy yet than the rest of the family put together."
"Ach, Dora, always you children like to make me think I been young yet."
But she was smilingly tremulous and pushed herself backward in her heavy throne-like chair. A butler sprang, lifting it gently from her.
Immediately the great, disheveled table, brilliantly littered with crystal, frumpled napkins, and a great centerpiece of fruits and flowers, was in the confusion of disorganization.
Daughters-in-law and husbands moved up toward a pair of doors swung heavily backward by two servants.