She went
into silent ecstasies before a Da Vinci, a Rembrandt and other fine
examples of the old masters, and was held spellbound by the beautiful
modelling of a piece of modern French sculpture. She was not enough of
a connoisseur to be able to estimate each picture, each curio at its
true value, but she knew enough to realize that it was a very valuable
collection and one which very few persons were privileged to view. The
books with their fine bindings were likewise a source of particular
delight.
How happy, she mused, the possessor of such a paradise ought to be!
She wondered if he spent much time at home or if he preferred to
answer the call of the gay metropolis. He looked like a man who
enjoyed life. Why had he taken all this trouble for such obscure
persons as themselves? Why had he looked at her in that persistent,
admiring way? Could it be possible that he was really attracted to her
and had begun to think of her as a man does of the woman he wants to
marry? Was it conceivable that she could ever be the mistress of such
a beautiful home as this? What folly to even dream of such a
possibility! Possibly, he was attracted to her and liked her company,
but there was a vast difference between a fleeting whim and wishing to
make her his wife. And when her glance fell on Jimmie and Fanny
squabbling in the distance it was with some bitterness that she
realized the difference in their station, the width of the social
chasm between her and the set to which their host belonged.
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