The lonely widows of robber barons found him irresistible and he was the guest of many a fine table. Selfishness. My late husband, I mean. “I repeat, gentlemen,” he said, in an ominously low tone, “what of it?” Drummond shrugged his shoulders. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. Through fire and water, through penury and pestilence, your hand will always be on his shoulder. Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art. Nevertheless, she could not prevent a rising excitement as the dawn of the new life drew near to her—a thrilling of the nerves, a secret and delicious exaltation above the common circumstances of existence.
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