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Updated: May 21, 2025
Ah! here are your mother and our proud Western beauty!" And she went forward to greet them. "It's more than her other half knows about her," was Mrs. Akemit's observation to the violets on her breast. "Come sit with me here in this corner, dear," said Mrs. Drelmer to Psyche, while Mrs. Bines joined her son and Mrs. Akemit. "I've so much to tell you.
"How girlish your little friend Mrs. Akemit is!" said his mother. "How did she come to lose her husband?" "Lost him in South Dakota," replied her son, shortly. "Divorced, ma," explained Psyche, "and Mrs. Drelmer says her family's good, but she's too gay." "Ah!" exclaimed Percival, "Mrs. Drelmer's hammer must be one of those cute little gold ones, all set with precious stones.
Then came strains of music from the rich-toned organ. "Oh, that dear Ned Ristine is playing," cried one; and several of the group sauntered toward the music-room. The music flooded the hall and the room, so that the talk died low. "He's improvising," exclaimed Mrs. Akemit. "How splendid!
"It's nice to have 'em all over the place," said her husband, "fair women and brave men, you know." "The men have to be brave," she answered, shortly, with a glance at little Mrs. Akemit, who had permitted Percival to seat her at his side, and was now pleading with him to agree that simple ways of life are requisite to the needed measure of spirituality.
She had the way of referring to herself as "poor little me," yet she never made demands or allowed him to feel that she expected anything from him in the way of allegiance. Mrs. Akemit was not only like St. Paul, "all things to all men," but she had gone a step beyond that excellent theologue. She could be all things to one man.
Isn't he divine?" The music came again. "Oh!" from Mrs. Akemit, again in an ecstasy, " he's playing that heavenly stuff from the second act of 'Tristan and Isolde' the one triumphant, perfect love-poem of all music." "That Scotch whiskey is good in some of the lesser emergencies," remarked Percival, turning to her; "but it has its limitations.
"How could you think so?" "Of course I'm not the least bit jealous it isn't my disposition; but I did think Florence Akemit wasn't the woman to make you happy of course I liked her immensely and there were reports going about everybody seemed so sure and you were with her so much. Oh, how I did hate her!" "I tell you she is a joke and always was."
Yet never had the other scene been more vivid to him, and never had the pain of her heartlessness been more poignant. When he "played" with Baby Akemit thereafter, the pretence was not all with the child.
He had been the devoted lover of Baby Akemit from the afternoon when he had first cajoled her into autobiography a vivid, fire-tipped little thing with her mother's piquancy.
The silence of lovers is the plainest of all speech, warning, disconcerting indeed, by its very bluntness, any but the truly mated. An hour's silence with these two people by themselves might have worked wonders. Another diversion of Percival's during this somewhat feverish winter was Mrs. Akemit.
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