“I’ll take up your offer,” he said, slapping his knee almost jovially. “I’ve heard how excellent it is. But, of course, I’ll pay for it. I couldn’t think of it otherwise.”
For a moment, there appeared in the manner of Emma the faintest hint of an ancient coquetry, long forgotten and grown a little stale. It was a mere shadow, something that lurked in the suspicious bobbing of the black ostrich plumes in her hat.
“Oh, don’t think of that,” she said. “It would be a pleasure—an honor.”
She rose and shook his hand. “Good-by, Mr. Slade, and thank you for letting me waste so much of your time.”
“It was a pleasure, madam, a pleasure,” and going to the door, he bowed her out of his widowed house.
When she had gone, Moses Slade returned to his study and before going back to his work he sat for a long time lost in thought. The shadow of a smile encircled the rather hard, virtuous lips. He smiled because he was thinking of Emma, of her fine figure and healthy, rosy face, of the curve of the full bosom, and the hips from which her dress flowed away like the waters of a fountain.
From the very moment of Minnie’s death—indeed, even long before, during the dragging, heavy-footed years of her invalidism—he had been thinking, with a deep sense of guilt, of a second marriage. The guilt had faded away by now, for Minnie had been in her grave for two summers and he could turn his thoughts in such a direction, freely and with a clear conscience. After all, he was a fine, vigorous man, in his prime. People talked about fifty-five as old age—a time when a man should begin to think of other things; but people didn’t know until they were fifty-five. He had talked like that himself once a long while ago. And now, look at him, as good a man as ever he was, and better, when it came to brains and head. Why, with all the experience he had had....
As he sat there, talking to himself, his earnestness became so great that his lips began to move, forming the words as if he were holding a conversation, even arguing, with another Moses Slade, who sat just across from him in the monstrous chair on the opposite side of the desk. He must, he felt, convince that other Moses Slade.
He went on talking. Look at Mrs. Downes! What a fine woman! With such noble—(yes, noble was the only word)—such noble curves and such a fine, high color. She, too, was in her prime, a fine figure of a woman, handsomer now than she had been as a skinny young thing of eighteen. There was a woman who would make a wife for a man like himself. And she had sense, too, running a business with such success. She’d be a great help to a man in politics.
He began prodding his memory about her. He remembered the story of her long widowhood, of Mr. Downes’ mysterious death. Yes, and he even remembered Downes himself, a whipper-snapper, who was no good, and had a devastating way with women. (Memories of a hot-blooded youth began to rise and torment him.) Well, she was better off without him, a no-good fellow like that. And what a brave fight she’d made! She was a fine woman. She had a son, too, a son who was a missionary, and—and—Why, come to think of it, hadn’t the son given it up and come home? That didn’t sound so good, but you could keep the son out of the way.