On the morning of the day that van Tuiver was expected, I went early to Aunt Varina’s room. She was going in the launch, and was in a state of flustration, occupied in putting on her best false hair. “Mrs. Tuis,” I said, “I want you to let me go to meet Mr. van Tuiver instead of you.”
I will not stop to report the good lady’s outcries. I did not care, I said, whether it was proper, nor did I care whether, as she finally hinted, it might not be agreeable to Mr. van Tuiver. I was sorry to have to thrust myself upon him, but I was determined to go, and would let nothing prevent me. And all at once she yielded, rather surprising me by the suddenness of it. I suppose she concluded that van Tuiver was the man to handle me, and the quicker he got at it the better.
It is a trying thing to deal with the rich and great. If you treat them as the rest of the world does, you are a tuft-hunter; if you treat them as the rest of the world pretends to, you are a hypocrite; whereas, if you deal with them truly, it is hard not to seem, even to yourself, a bumptious person. I remember trying to tell myself on the launch-trip that I was not in the least excited; and then, standing on the platform of the railroad station, saying: “How can you expect not to be excited, when even the railroad is excited?”
“Will Mr. van Tuiver’s train be on time?” I asked, of the agent.
“‘Specials’ are not often delayed,” he replied, “at least, not Mr. van Tuiver’s.”
The engine and its two cars drew up, and the traveller stepped out upon the platform, followed by his secretary and his valet. I went forward to meet him. “Good morning, Mr. van Tuiver.”
I saw at once that he did not remember me. “Mrs. Abbott,” I prompted. “I came to meet you.”
“Ah,” he said. He had never got clear whether I was a sewing-woman, or a tutor, or what, and whenever he erred in such matters, it was on the side of caution.
“Your wife is doing well,” I said, “and the child as well as could be expected.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Did no one else come?”