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"Any irremediable grief were gnawing at her damask cheeks? "What's this about damask cheeks?" The question came along with a swirl of skirts from the great hall. "Cousin Anna, don't hate me for keeping you so long. Mr. Brockton, I owe you a thousand apologies." Some of those who admitted Millicent Harned's charm declared that it lay in her voice.
In her heart she knew that she did not love Will Brockton, and she believed him too clever a man to imagine for a moment that she had any real affection for him. They were pals, that was all. He liked her very much she was sure of that. But it was not love. How could a woman of her character expect to inspire decent love in any man?
You buy yourself a small circle of sycophants; you pay them well for feeding your vanity, and then you pose with a certain frank admission of vice and degradation. And those who aren't quite as brazen as you call it manhood. Manhood?" he echoed contemptuously. "Why, you don't know what the word means! Yours is the attitude of a pup and a cur." Brockton turned.
The newspaper man looked at him inquiringly. Curtly he demanded: "What do you mean by my foot slipping, Mr. Brockton?" The broker returned his gaze steadily. "Do you want me to tell you?" "I sure do." Brockton turned to Laura, who stood listening, rather uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking. "Laura," he said quietly, "run into the house and see if Mrs. Williams has won another quarter.
The modest courthouse stood on one side, as green-bowered as if Justice were a smiling goddess; a few churches broke the stretch of houses. And on the other side the library and museum stood. "Pretty little building, but plain," commented Brockton, making disparaging note of its graceful severity. "It's exactly suited to the place; it epitomizes its spirit," said Anna, glibly.
She stood in awe of her mistress when she was in ill-humor. "Yassum!" While the negress was in the inner room taking the garments from the cupboards, Laura continued busily arranging the contents of the trunk, placing garments here, and some there, sorting them out. While she was thus engaged, with her back to the door, the door leading to the outer corridor opened, and Brockton appeared.
Throwing herself into a seat, she picked up a magazine, and made a pretense of becoming interested in the illustrations. Brockton moved towards the entrance to the house. "No game then," he said laughingly. "I'm going in to help Mrs. Williams. Maybe she's lost seven dollars by this time. I may be able to get it back for her." He disappeared in the house.
Sarcastically he inquired: "What are you going to live on extra editions?" "No, we're young, there's plenty of time," she answered calmly. "I can work in the meantime and so can he. With his ability and my ability it will only be a matter of a year or two when things will shape themselves to make it possible." Brockton chuckled to himself. "Sounds well a year off."
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him the truth there and then, tell him she had lied about mailing the letter to Madison, and that she had been miserable ever since; tell him that this rotten, artificial life disgusted and degraded her, that she was sick of it and of him. But she had not the courage. Meantime, Brockton, left to himself, went on perusing the paper more carefully.
Brockton laughed, but Millicent went on: "Seriously, the loveliest belief I ever lost was the one in the wings with which my virtues should be at last rewarded. To breast the ether among the whirling stars, didn't you ever lie awake and think of the possibility of that, Anna?" "Never! I'm no poet in a state of suffocation, as I sometimes suspect you of being."
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