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Updated: September 2, 2025
Brewster-Smith turned back to her young cousin-by-marriage and murmured, "That was such a true and deep saying of George's... wherever does such a young man get his wisdom!... that women are not fitted by nature to cope with hostile forces!" Cousin Emelene approached from behind the statue of Genevieve, still frozen in place with an expression of stupefaction on her white face.
In the composition of this letter George washed his hands of responsibility with, you might say, antiseptic care. He had taken pleasure in recommending Miss Eliot, he explained, and Mrs. Brewster-Smith was acting on his recommendation. Any questions arising out of the management of the property should be taken up directly with her client.
He imagined her crying her heart out. He leaped up the steps and ran up to his room. In it was Alys Brewster-Smith. She started slightly. "I was just looking for some cold cream," she explained. "Where's Genevieve?" George asked. "Oh, she's out," Alys replied casually. "She left a note for you."
If only they could have the world to themselves no Cousin Emelene, no Alys Brewster-Smith, no Penfield Evans and Betty Sheridan, with their frivolity and low ideals, to complicate things! An Arcadian Island in some Aeonian Sea. "Well," he said hopefully, "our home can be like that.
Why, George, that would be " "That would be the least I could do to let the people see " "To let the people see that Mrs. Brewster-Smith and all your social friends in this town are associated with Mike the Goat and his gang " Before Evans could finish, his partner stopped him. "Yes, yes the whole damned system of greed!
"George isn't like that at all," she said. "He's he's really fine. He's old-fashioned and sentimental about women, but he isn't a hypocrite. He really means those things he says. Why..." And then Betty went on to tell her new friend about Cousin Emelene and Alys Brewster-Smith, and how George, though he writhed, had stood the gaff.
Jaffry donned his cap of homespun, ran down the steps and out the front walk, hopped into his eight-cylinder roadster, and was off down the street in a second. There was a sharp decisiveness about his exit, and about the sudden speed of his machine; all duly noted by Mrs. Brewster-Smith, who had gone so far as to move down the room to the front window and watch the performance with narrowed eyes.
Was she asking if he were the knight of those women who worked and sweated and burned, or of her and the comfortable women of her class, of Alys Brewster-Smith with her little cottages, of Cousin Emelene with her little stocks, of masquerading Betty Sheridan whose sortie of independence was from the safe vantage-grounds of entrenched privilege?
The popular impression was that he would be elected hands down. Brewster-Smith reported that former Congressman Hancock had compared it, not unfavorably, with certain public utterances of the Honorable Elihu Root. George Remington was an inch more than six feet tall, with sturdy shoulders, a chin that gave every indication of stubborn strength, a frank smile, and a warm, strong handclasp. Mr.
He wrote you a note this morning about some cottages that belong to a cousin of his, Mrs. Brewster-Smith." "I answered that note by his own messenger," said E. Eliot. "He should have got the reply before this." "Oh, he got it," said Betty, "and was rather upset about it. What I've come for, is to urge you to reconsider."
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