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Perhaps Skinner Leason, the express agent, moved a truck the length of the station platform. Over on Main Street sounded a man's voice, laughing. The door of the express office banged. George Willard arose and crossing the room fumbled for the doorknob. Sometimes he knocked against a chair, making it scrape along the floor. By the window sat the sick woman, perfectly still, listless.
"Why, there's Bessie Bissell in that box! You know she married a young fellow, an engineer or something." And she added either aloud or to herself, "They seem to be in it, that's the Leason box."
And when an invitation came from Mrs. Anstruthers Leason to dinner and her box at the French opera, Bessie was sure that she had found her sphere. Falkner seemed to Bessie these days to be growing harder, he was "exacting," "unsympathetic," "tyrannical." "He won't go places, and he won't have people, isn't nice to them, even in his own house," Bessie said sadly to Isabelle.
Leason seemed to find common ground, while the other men, the usual speechless contingent of tired business men, allowed themselves to be talked at by the women. Presently Fosdick's voice boomed forth: "Let me tell you a story which will illustrate my point, Mrs. Leason.
He caught his train, and took a cab from the station directly to the law offices of Messrs. Grey, Leason and Grey, anxious to catch the lawyer before he left for the day. The clerk sent up word that Mr. Heaton wished to see the senior Mr. Grey for a few moments. Allen was asked to walk up. "You know the way, sir," said the clerk. Allen hesitated. "Announce me, if you please."
"Hush, Dickie! you have exploded enough to-night. Don't say that to Mrs. Leason!" Her world appeared to her that night a harlequin tangle, and, above all, meaningless yes, dispiritedly without sense. John, somehow, seemed displeased with her, as if she were responsible for Dickie's breaks. She laughed again as she thought of the sow story, and the way the women took it.
There were eight little pigs clustered in voracious attitudes about her, and she could supply but six at a time, I mean that she was provided by nature with but six teats." Mrs. Leason visibly moved away from her neighbor, and for the rest of his story Fosdick had a silent dinner table. "The mother was asleep," Fosdick continued, turning his great head closer to Mrs.
Corporation's box on a gala night at the Metropolitan, or in the Duchess of Thatshire's box at Covent Garden. But the strange fact of democracy is that instead of discouraging social desires it has multiplied them ten thousand fold. Every city in the land has its own Mrs. Anstruthers Leason or Mrs.
Fosdick, leaning his fat hands on his heavy stick, slowly made the round of the canvasses, concluding with the portrait of Mrs. Leason. "Got some talent in him," he pronounced; "a penny worth. If he can only keep away from this sort of thing," pointing with his stick to the portrait, "he might paint in twenty years." "But why shouldn't he do portraits? They all have to, to live."
Blyth, "is the corvus crassirostris of Ruppell, and, together with a nearly similar Cape species, is referred to the genus Corvultur of Leason." In these hills it is said sometimes to freeze; I never saw ice. It is a string of little silver bells and other ornaments made by the Arabs at Berberah. Harari, Somali and Galla, besides Arabic, and other more civilized dialects.
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