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Updated: May 9, 2025
"Miss Husted is at the top of the notch," replied Pinac, who generally constituted himself spokesman for the party. "We are all top of the notch," he added, "eh, Poonsie?" slapping the young man on the back. "What a strange thing is this human existence!" thought Von Barwig, as he left his friends and walked back to his studio alone.
"Which?" inquired the stout lady, and laughed; she saw the joke if Miss Husted didn't and was good natured enough to laugh even if it were her own. "Well, I'm an artist," she said after a pause. "Indeed?" said Miss Husted, and there was a slight inflection of sarcasm in that lady's voice. Mrs.
Thurza's mental attitude was the socialistic slant that made for the destruction of aristocracy; Miss Husted's system created one of her own. To Thurza foreigners were either "dagoes" or "Dutch"; to Miss Husted they were either "gentlemen" or "noblemen" or both. In this way, perhaps, the balance of harmony was restored in Houston Mansion, as Miss Husted dearly loved to call her home.
He pinched Jenny's cheek; he joked with Miss Husted; he smiled at Thurza, and he even ventured a few remarks to Mrs. Mangenborn, whom he cordially disliked. Every one present thought that Von Barwig was as happy as could be. That night, after he had closed the door of his room he sighed deeply and looked out of his window into the street at the blinking lamplights.
"Professor, you are always doing things for folks, but you never allow folks to do anything for you," said Miss Husted, slightly piqued by his refusal of her invitation. "Ah, then I accept!" said Von Barwig, seeing that she was hurt, "just to show you that you are more powerful than my own resolutions. But I warn you I shall be sad company; I don't feel quite myself tonight.
It was Fico playing a waltz, "The Artist's Life," on the mandolin, while Poons extemporised a pizzicato accompaniment on the 'cello. "Ah, my boys, they are in," he said to himself. "I hope they didn't wait breakfast for me." "Professor, professor!" came the cheery voice of Miss Husted, as she greeted him warmly. "I'm so glad to see you!" The music stopped.
How much do you say he is to pay?" she went on, as if Miss Husted had told her and she had forgotten the precise amount. "Fourteen," replied Miss Husted, "and it's a good price." "Not bad! But wait, you'll see that's only the beginning," and Mrs. Mangenborn mixed up the cards lying on the table oblivious of the fact that she had just shuffled Miss Husted's marital prospects out of existence.
Altogether, Miss Husted was an exceedingly romantic, high-strung, middle-aged spinster, miles and miles above her station in life, whose heart and purse were open to any foreigner who had discernment enough to see her weakness and tact enough to pander to it by hinting at his noble lineage. This love of things and beings aristocratic was more than a weakness.
Poons suffered more than the rest, and swore roundly in German every time the shutter struck against the window jamb. "Jenny," came the shrill voice of Miss Husted up the stairway at the back of the hall. That lady was more than ever set against her niece's "taking up with a musician," as she called the love match between Poons and Jenny.
And I may add I was going to ask you for your room this very evening." Mrs. Mangenborn's only answer was a loud and prolonged laugh, which she kept up all the way to her room and which only ceased when she had shut her door with a loud bang. "Good riddance!" thought Miss Husted, "a very good riddance!" Thus the friendship of years was sundered.
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