“Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. “Look at our clothes,” she exclaimed, “and besides, the funny little proprietor has gone down himself to help it along. ” Her heart had warmed toward him. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. ” John introduced her to couple after couple, a dizzying array of new people that she could not catalogue in her memory quickly enough.
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