ngram boldly
and blushingly protested, maintaining that one of them was lovely.
George was attracted to Laurencine, in whom he saw no likeness to her
sister Lois. She could not long have left school. She was the product
finished for the world; she had been taught everything that was
considered desirable--even to the art of talking easily and yet
virginally on all subjects at table; and she was a nice, honest,
handsome girl, entirely unspoilt by the mysterious operations practised
upon her. She related how she had been present when a famous
photographer arrived at Miss Wheeler's flat with his apparatus, and what
the famous photographer had said. The boys laughed. Miss Wheeler smiled
faintly. "I'm glad we didn't have to go to that play to-night," she
remarked, quitting photography. "However, I shall have to go to-morrow
night. And I don't care for first nights in London, only they will have
me go." In this last phrase, and in the intonation of it, was the first
sign she had given of her American origin; her speech was usually
indistinguishable from English English, which language she had in fact
carefully acquired years earlier. George gathered that Lucas's success
in getting Miss Wheeler to dinner was due to the accident of a first
night being postponed at the last moment and Miss Wheeler thus finding
herself with an empty evening. He covertly examined her. Why was the
feat of getting Miss Wheeler to dinner enormous? Why would photographers
not leave her alone? Why would theatrical managers have her accept boxes
gratis which they could sell for money? Why was she asked to join the
Viceregal party for the Durbar? Why was the restaurant agog? Why was he
himself proud and flattered--yes, proud and flattered--to be seen at the
same table with her?... She was excessively rich, no doubt; she was
reputed to be the niece of a railway man in Indianapolis who was one of
the major rivals of Harriman. She dressed superbly, perhaps too
superbly. But there were innumerable rich and well-dressed women on
earth. After all, she put her gold bag and her gloves down on the table
with just the same gesture as other women did; and little big Laurencine
had a gold bag too. She was not witty. He questioned whether she was
essentially kind. She was not young; her age was an enigma. She had not
a remarkable figure, nor unforgettable hair, nor incendiary eyes. She
seemed too placid and self-centred for love. If she had loved, it must
have been as