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Amory, Son of Beatrice
Iwillbecharmandinchantedindeedtopresentmycomplimentsonnext
Thursdayevening.
Faithfully,
AmoryBlaine.
OnThursday,therefore,hewalkedpensivelyalongtheslippery,shovel-scrapedsidewalks,andcameinsightofMyra’shouse,onthehalf-hourafterfive,alatenesswhichhefanciedhismotherwouldhavefavored.Hewaitedonthedoor-stepwithhiseyesnonchalantlyhalf-closed,andplannedhisentrancewithprecision.Hewouldcrossthefloor,nottoohastily,toMrs.St.Claire,andsaywithexactlythecorrectmodulation:
"MydearMrs.St.Claire,I’mfrightfullysorrytobelate,butmymaid"—hepausedthereandrealizedhewouldbequoting—"butmyuncleandIhadtoseeafella—Yes,I’vemetyourenchantingdaughteratdancing-school."
Thenhewouldshakehands,usingthatslight,half-foreignbow,withallthestarchylittlefemales,andnodtothefellaswhowouldbestanding’round,paralyzedintorigidgroupsformutualprotection.
Abutler(oneofthethreeinMinneapolis)swungopenthedoor.Amorysteppedinsideanddivestedhimselfofcapandcoat.Hewasmildlysurprisednottoheartheshrillsquawkofconversationfromthenextroom,andhedecideditmustbequiteformal.Heapprovedofthat—asheapprovedofthebutler.
"MissMyra,"hesaid.
Tohissurprisethebutlergrinnedhorribly.
"Oh,yeah,"hedeclared,"she’shere."Hewasunawarethathisfailuretobecockneywasruininghisstanding.Amoryconsideredhimcoldly.