turned. "Gracious me!" he said again and gazed at the still vibrating car.
George this time encountered a new personality in the Gilman hall, a tall, self-contained woman with traces of considerable beauty and a dignified manner.
"I am Mrs. Gilman," she said, bowing but not offering her hand. "Will you wait in the library please?"
Her voice was pleasant, but a degree north of cordial, and her manner was, well—reserved, or exclusive—something like that.
The library immediately joined in this conspiracy by awing him. There were amazing great pictures with amazing, massive, gilt frames; there were spider-legged tables of differing designs and set at varying angles; there were odd little cabinets and intriguing chests of tiny drawers, evidently old, probably far-gathered, all looking only slightly serviceable, but extremely ornamental.
But perversely this very harmony of beauty contributed an additional feeling of discomfort. It made him feel so ridiculously out of his element. Characters in the huge paintings stared him out of countenance; tiny statues ogled him or jiggled derisive fingers at him; a bronze mountain lion snarled at him, showing wicked teeth and a vicious curl of his tail.
But at length he became more accustomed to
