Sanborn seemed alarmed:
"My lips are glued to my pipe."
Mason mused—("Composed!" Sanborn thought.)
"She looked as if she had been moulded into her gown. The Parisian robe and the hair piled high, were fast—undeniably theatric, but her little face was sweet and girlish, almost childish. Well, she had glamour, largely physical as you say. But like the heroes of E. P. Roe's novels, I aspired to awaken her soul. She was pleased with me apparently. I called soon after the reception—I always follow up each case of glamour. I knew she was rich but I did not realize she commanded such an establishment.
"It was enormous. Her mother was a faded little hen of a woman, who had been a very humble person in youth, and who continued a very humble person in middle-life. The court-house in which she was forced to live continually over-awed her, but the girl used it, entertained in it as if she had a string of palace-dwelling ancestors straggling clear back to Charlemagne."
"That's the American idea, the power of adaptation. Our women have it better developed than—"
"She was a gracious and charming hostess, and I admit the sight of her in command of such an establishment was impressive. I thought how easily a tired editor could be absorbed into that institution and be at rest—a kind of life hospital, so to say. She was interested in me—that was certain."
"Now, Mason, I must protest. You know how high Isabel and I both hold you, but we never quite considered you in the light of a ladies' man. Your Springfield girl must have had dozens of brilliant and handsome young men about her."
Mason smoked in silence, waiting till Sanborn's buzz ceased.
"Well, she came to the city last month, and I've been to see her a number of times; the last time I saw her she proposed to me."