"What more could you ask?"
"He might 'ave praised me beauty!" Then she laughed and rushed at Rose and hugged her for some reason not expressed.
"Isn't he just grand?"
"I'm going out to dinner Sunday night!"
"Where? Woman doctor's?"
"Yes. I met her sister, too."
"O, you'll soon be getting so swell you won't notice us. Well, anyhow, you'll leave me Owen?"
In the mood in which she went to sleep that night, there was no premonition of conquest. The tide of her life sank low. It was impossible for her to succeed—she, a little country girl, of five feet nine. She looked at her bulk as it showed under the quilts. How small a thing she was to be set over against the mighty city.
And yet Napoleon was less than she. And Patti and Edwin Booth were not so large. The life of a great actor, like Edwin Booth, a singer, like Patti, interested her deeply. She wondered that they could do things like other people. They were so public, so admired, so lifted into the white-hot glare of success.