This was true, for Annette Crane had the beauty of form, of colour, of sweetness and gentleness to an extraordinary degree. She was no Perdita—no one would have taken her for a princess stolen in infancy. But not Ruth in the harvest-field was more natural, more sweetly graceful than this lady from Circleville, somewhere in the Middle West.
"Annette admired you tremendously," continued Crane, in the easy tone of a man who knows his wife is desperately in love with him, and thinks her fully justified. "She said it was kind of you to call. Like me, she thought we were going to do wonderful things—I believe she used to pray that our hearts might not be hardened by our social triumphs. Well, you know all about it. We were asked to the President's receptions, and my wife called on the Cabinet officers' families, and at the houses of the Senators and the Representatives from our own State. We were asked to dinner at our junior Senator's house. I thought it would be grand. It was, in a way—the old man is pretty well heeled—but it was exactly like one of those banquets a Chamber of Commerce gives to a distinguished citizen. Annette was the prettiest woman
