Marcus Wilkeson saw a subtle motive in this awkward tarrying at the
door, and, having no objection to gratifying it, he straightway
introduced Mr. Wesley Tiffles to Miss Philomela Wilkeson. Mr. Tiffles
put himself into the form of an L, like a professional acrobat; and Miss
Wilkeson executed a courtesy in the old, exploded style. Then, as if
appalled at what she had done, she backed into the entry as fast as she
had come from it.
Mr. Tiffles, upon whom the small events of life made no impression,
thought no more of Miss Wilkeson that evening, but smoked three pipes,
told two funny stories, sang one comic song, and then went home, having
previously exacted from the three bachelors a promise to call at his
rooms and see at least one half of the panorama completed, on the
following day week.
Since Miss Wilkeson had been an inmate of that house, she had seen
Wesley Tiffles perhaps a dozen times, in the entry or on the doorsteps,
and had been impressed with his gentlemanlike air, his quick black eyes,
and his deferential manner toward her. Everybody is supposed to have a
realized ideal somewhere, if he or she could only find it.
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