“Oh, I've pulled it up by the roots,” she said.
“Aren't you afraid of ghosts?” I inquired.
“Do I look it?” she asked. And I confessed that she didn't. Indeed, all ghosts were laid, nor was there about her the slightest evidence of mourning or regret. One was forced to acknowledge her perfection in the part she had chosen as the arbitress of social honours. The candidates were rapidly increasing; almost every month, it seemed, someone turned up with a fortune and the aspirations that go with it, and it was Mrs. Durrett who decided the delicate question of fitness. With these, and with the world at large, her manner might best be described as difficult; and I was often amused at the way in which she contrived to keep them at arm's length and make them uncomfortable. With her intimates—of whom there were few—she was frank.
“I suppose you enjoy it,” I said to her once.
“Of course I enjoy it, or I shouldn't do it,” she retorted. “It isn't the real thing, as I told you once. But none of us gets the real thing. It's power.... Just as you enjoy what you're doing—sorting out the unfit. It's a game, it keeps us from brooding over things we can't help. And after all, when we have good appetites and are fairly happy, why should we complain?”
“I'm not complaining,” I said, taking up a cigarette, “since I still enjoy your favour.”
She regarded me curiously.
“And when you get married, Hugh?”
“Sufficient unto the day,” I replied.
“How shall I get along, I wonder, with that simple and unsophisticated lady when she appears?”