Produced by Suzanne L. Shell, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team LIFTED MASKS STORIES By Susan Glaspell 1912 TO THE MEMORY OF MY FRIEND JENNIE PRESTON CONTENTS I “ONE OF THOSE IMPOSSIBLE AMERICANS” II THE PLEA III FOR LOVE OF THE HILLS IV FRECKLES M'GRATH V FROM A TO Z VI THE MAN OF FLESH AND BLOOD VII HOW THE PRINCE SAW AMERICA VIII THE LAST SIXTY MINUTES IX “OUT THERE” X THE PREPOSTEROUS MOTIVE XI HIS AMERICA XII THE ANARCHIST: HIS DOG XIII AT TWILIGHT LIFTED MASKS I “ONE OF THOSE IMPOSSIBLE AMERICANS” “N'avez-vous pas--” she was bravely demanding of the clerk when she saw that the bulky American who was standing there helplessly dangling two flaming red silk stockings which a copiously coiffured young woman assured him were _bien chic_ was edging nearer her. She was never so conscious of the truly American quality of her French as when a countryman was at hand. The French themselves had an air of “How marvellously you speak!” but fellow Americans listened superciliously in an “I can do better than that myself” manner which quite untied the Gallic twist in one's tongue. And so, feeling her French was being compared, not with mere French itself, but with an arrogant new American brand thereof, she moved a little around the corner of the counter and began again in lower voice: “_Mais, n'avez_--” “Say, Young Lady,” a voice which adequately represented the figure broke in, “_you_, aren't French, are you?” She looked up with what was designed for a haughty stare. But what is a haughty stare to do in the face of a broad grin? And because it was such a long time since a grin like that had been grinned at her it happened that the stare gave way to a dimple, and the dimple to a laughing: “Is it so bad as that?” “Oh, not your French,” he assured her. “You talk it just like the rest of them. In fact, I should say, if anything--a little more so. But do you know,”--confidentially--“I can just spot an American girl every time!” “How?” she could not resist asking, and the modest black hose she was thinking of purchasing dangled against his gorgeous red ones in friendliest fashion. “Well, Sir--I don't know. I don't think it can be the clothes,”--judicially surveying her. “The clothes,” murmured Virginia, “were bought in Paris.” “Well, you've got _me_. Maybe it's the way you wear 'em. Maybe it's 'cause you look as if you used to play tag with your brother. Something--anyhow--gives a fellow that 'By jove there's an American girl!' feeling when he sees you coming round the corner.” “But why--?” “Lord--don't begin on _why_. You can say _why_ to anything. Why don't the French talk English? Why didn't they lay Paris out at right angles? Now look here, Young Lady, for that matter--_why_ can't you help me buy some presents for my wife? There'd be nothing wrong about it,” he hastened to assure her, “because my wife's a mighty fine woman.”