"Lights," there would be light, otherwise the world would gnash its teeth in outer darkness.
Even had she travelled—ay, as long and as far as her charming compatriot, "the Wandering Jew," she would have recognized as existent only those things she could touch or feel, or that contributed to her well-being or purse. The sea, when it wasn't a salon for the display of bathing costumes, was something back of Filet of Sole, perhaps also of its Tartar sauce. Paris was the source of Mary Garden perfume, the slashed skirt, and—marvellous perspicacity here—one intangible thing—that chic which she called "class."
Altogether it was surprising that her superb matter-of-factness was disturbed by that prophecy of the Pell Street medium,—"a long journey"—but even Achilles had his compounding weakness. The solid ore of her practicality was shot through with veins of superstition, as near imagination's gold as she could show.
A violent reaction was produced by the idyllic headline which announced the "Huntington Nuptials." Now usually her displays of temperament were for effect, to please her vanity, or for shrewd professional purpose. One had sometimes the suspicion that this temper of hers was not so very dreadful, after all, but rather humorous and practical, a crude hose and hydrant sort of thing, to be turned at will, off, or on for the bowling over of weak victims. However, on this occasion the outburst was probably more natural.
She ripped the paper in two, back-kicked the gilt chair until its frail underpinning buckled, and hurled a bottle of
