"A lady with
a soul. Don't you hear dear old Boston calling you, Sophy? Here's
one to put Miss Martha Hopkins's light under a bushel basket!"
We had several other inquirers; and chose from them Mr. Chetwynd
Harrison-Gore and his daughter, English folk "doing" America and
delighted to include a Carolina colonial house in their trip; a
suffrage leader, whose throat needed a rest; and Morenas, the
illustrator. It seemed that Hynds House offered to each one
something that had been craved for.
The Author pounced upon us two or three days before we expected him,
to take stock after his own fashion. I have heard The Author
commended for "the humor of his rare smile and the keen, kind
intellectuality of his remarkable eyes." Well, the smile was rare
enough; and of course there isn't any doubt about the man's
intellectuality. For the rest, he proved to be a tall, lanky,
stooping person, with a thin tanned face, outstanding ears, a high
nose, and long, blue-gray eyes half-hidden under drooping lids and
behind glasses. His hair was just hair. And he had the sort of
mustache that bristled like a cat's when he twisted his lip.
So far as monetary success, and efficacious press-agents, and the
adulation, admiration, emulation, and envy of his contemporaries
went, he had nothing to complain of.
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