Rasch struck him as quite beautifully wailing—above all to such an effect of deep interest, that is, on her own part and in him.
"My situation?"—he echoed, he considered; but reminded afresh, by the note of the detached, the far-projected in it, of what he had last remembered of his sentient state on his once taking ether at the dentist's.
"Yours and hers—the situation of her adoring you. I suppose you at least know it," Cornelia smiled.
Yes, it was like the other time and yet it wasn't. She was like—poor Cornelia was—everything that used to be; that somehow was most definite to him. Still he could quite reply, "Do you call it—her adoring me—my situation?"
"Well, it's a part of yours, surely—if you're in love with her."
"Am I, ridiculous old person! in love with her?" White-Mason asked.
"I may be a ridiculous old person," Cornelia returned—"and, for that matter, of course I am ! But she's young and lovely and rich and clever: so what could be more natural?"
"Oh, I was applying that opprobrious epithet—!" He didn't finish, though he meant he had applied it to himself. He had got up from his seat; he turned about and, taking in, as his eyes also roamed, several objects in the room, serene and sturdy, not a bit cheap-looking, little old New York objects of '68,
