“And you?” it was his wife asking.
“I sent it. She has waited a long time on you, Mary.”
Mrs. Rumsey had risen again, her lapful of ribbons and papers strewing the floor. “You sent it, and you asked him to dinner, Donald Page, absolutely come up out of the ranks——”
“I am out of the ranks,” said her husband.
“—and self-made, that is, if he ever is made at all.”
“I am self-made,” said John Rumsey.
Mary Rumsey, imposing in her maturity, handsome, surveyed him. She was a Wingate and they are an arrogant blood.
“I am self-made,” repeated John Rumsey, looking at her steadily.
“I have never forgotten it,” said Mary, his wife, her eyes measuring him.
The little boy at the window was gazing at these older people. His eyes were big.