Титан

Airs from the Orient

           Itwassoniceofyoutodothis.

           STEPHANIEPLATOW.

           Cowperwoodstudiedthehandwriting,thepaper,thephraseology.Foragirlofonlyalittleovertwentythiswaswiseandreservedandtactful.Shemighthavewrittentohimathisresidence.Hegaveherthebenefitofaweek’stime,andthenfoundherinhisownhomeoneSundayafternoon.Aileenhadgonecalling,andStephaniewaspretendingtoawaitherreturn.

           "It’snicetoseeyouthereinthatwindow,"hesaid."Youfityourbackgroundperfectly."

           "DoI?"Theblack-browneyesburnedsoulfully.Thepannelingbackofherwasofdarkoak,burnishedbytheraysofanafternoonwintersun.

           StephaniePlatowhaddressedforthisopportunity.Herfull,rich,shortblackhairwascaughtbyachildishbandofblood-redribbon,holdingitlowoverhertemplesandears.Herlithebody,soharmoniousinitsgravenroundness,wascladinanapple-greenbodice,andablackskirtwithgussetsofredaboutthehem;hersmootharms,fromtheelbowsdown,werebare.Ononewristwasthejadebracelethehadgivenher.Herstockingswereapple-greensilk,and,despitethechilloftheday,herfeetwereshodinenticinglylowslipperswithbrassbuckles.

           Cowperwoodretiredtothehalltohanguphisovercoatandcamebacksmiling.

           "Isn’tMrs.Cowperwoodabout?"

           "Thebutlersaysshe’soutcalling,butIthoughtI’dwaitalittlewhile,anyhow.Shemaycomeback.

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