New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Women -- Suffrage -- United States -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
"Miss Ruth Chenery Vars
The Homestead, Hilton, Mass.
License No. 668."
Inside were two dozen American Beauty roses. Tied to the stem of one was
an envelope, and inside the envelope was a card which bore the name of
Breckenridge Sewall.
* * * * *
"So _that's_ who he is!" Miss Vars said out loud.
I saw a great deal of the young millionaire during the remainder of the
summer. Hardly a day passed but that I heard the approaching purr of his
car. And never a week but that flowers and candy, and more flowers and
candy, filled the rejoicing Homestead.
I was a canny young person. I allowed Mr. Sewall very little of my time
in private. I refused to go off alone with him anywhere, and the result
was that he was forced to attend teas and social functions if he wanted
to indulge in his latest fancy. The affair, carried on as it was before
the eyes of the whole community, soon became the main topic of
conversation. I felt myself being pointed out everywhere I went as the
girl distinguished by the young millionaire, Breckenridge Sewall. My
friends regarded me with wonder.
Before a month had passed a paragraph appeared in a certain periodical
in regard to the exciting affair. I burst into flattering notoriety.
What had before been slow and difficult sailing for Edith and me now
became as swift and easy as if we had added an auxiliary engine to our
little boat. We found ourselves receiving invitations from hostesses who
before had been impregnable. Extended hands greeted us--kindness,
cordiality.
Finally the proud day arrived when I was invited to Grassmere as a
guest. One afternoon Breck came rushing in upon me and eagerly explained
that his mother sent her apologies, and would I be good enough to fill
in a vacancy at a week-end house-party. Of course I would! Proudly I
rode away beside Breck in his automobile, out of the gates of the
Homestead along the state road a mile or two, and swiftly swerved inside
the fifty thousand dollar wrought-iron fence around the cherished
grounds of Grassmere. My trunks followed, and Edith's hopes followed
too!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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