A second "young American" was present--George F. Pearson. Pearson lived
with his parents in another big house a block down the street. Mrs.
Phillips had summoned him as a type that was purely indigenous--the
"young American business man." Pearson had just made a "kill," as he
called it--a coup executed quite without the aid of his father, and he
was too full of his success to keep still; he was more typical than
ever. The Professor had looked at him in staring wonder. So had Amy
Leffingwell--in the absence of another target for her large, intent
eyes.
But Medora Phillips knew all about George and Roddy. The novelty was
Lemoyne, and she must learn about him. She readily seized the points
that composed his personal aspect, which she found good: his general
darkness and richness made him a fine foil for Cope. She quickly
credited him with a pretty complete battery of artistic aptitudes and
apprehensions. She felt certain that he would appreciate her ballroom
and picture-gallery, and would figure well within it. The company was
young, the night was wild, and cheer was the word. She presently led
the way upstairs. Foster, as soon as he heard the first voices in the
hall and the first footfalls on the bare treads of the upper stairs,
shut his door.
Lemoyne felt the big bare room--bare save for a piano and a fringe of
chairs and settles, large and small--as a stage; and he surmised that
he, the new-comer, was expected to exhibit himself on it. He became
consciously the actor. He tried now the assertive note, and now the
quiet note; somehow the quiet was the louder of the two. Pearson, who
was in a conquering mood tonight, scented a rival in the general
attention, and one not wholly unworthy. Pearson was the only one of the
four in evening dress, and he felt that to be an advantage. He, at
least, had been properly attired to meet the elegant visitor from
abroad. As for poor Roddy, he had come in an ordinary sack: perhaps it
was partly this which had prompted M. Pelouse (who was of course
dressed for the platform) to find the boy such a paragon of simple
innocence.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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