Miriam Steuvisant applauded herself, so to
speak, with encore after encore. It was good to see this
courteous, silent man literally at the feet of the young debutante.
He was there of right. Even the mothers of marriageable daughters
admitted that. The young girl was brown-haired, brown-eyed, and
tall enough, said the experts, and of the blue blood royal, with
all the grace, courtesy, and inbred genius of such princely
heritage.
Perhaps it was objected by the censors of the Smart Set that Miss
St. Clair's frankness and honesty were a trifle old-fashioned, and
that she was a shadowy bit of a Puritan; and perhaps it was of
these same qualities that Samuel Walcott received his hurt. At any
rate the hurt was there and deep, and the new actor stepped up into
the old time-worn, semi-tragic drama, and began his role with a
tireless, utter sincerity that was deadly dangerous if he lost.
II
Perhaps a week after the conversation between St. Clair and
Walcott, Randolph Mason stood in the private waiting-room of the
club with his hands behind his back.
He was a man apparently in the middle forties; tall and reasonably
broad across the shoulders; muscular without being either stout or
lean.
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