This passage is excerpted from Edith Wharton, House of Mirth, originally published in 1905.
Selden paused in surprise. In the afternoon rush of the
Grand Central Station his eyes had been refreshed by the sight
of Miss Lily Bart.
It was a Monday in early September, and he was returning
to his work from a hurried dip into the country; but what was
Miss Bart doing in town at that season? Her desultory air
perplexed him. She stood apart from the crowd, letting it drift
by her to the platform or the street, and wearing an air of
irresolution which might, as he surmised, be the mask of a very
definite purpose. It struck him at once that she was waiting for
someone, but he hardly knew why the idea arrested him. There
was nothing new about Lily Bart, yet he could never see her
without a faint movement of interest: it was characteristic of
her that she always roused speculation, that her simplest acts
seemed the result of far-reaching intentions.
An impulse of curiosity made him turn out of his direct line
to the door, and stroll past her. He knew that if she did not wish
to be seen she would contrive to elude him; and it amused him
to think of putting her skill to the test. “Mr. Selden—what good
luck!”
She came forward smiling, eager almost, in her resolve to
intercept him. One or two persons, in brushing past them,
lingered to look; for Miss Bart was a figure to arrest even the
suburban traveller rushing to his last train.
Selden had never seen her more radiant. Her vivid head,
relieved against the dull tints of the crowd, made her more
conspicuous than in a ball-room, and under her dark hat and
veil she regained the girlish smoothness, the purity of tint, that
she was beginning to lose after eleven years of late hours and
indefatigable dancing.
“What luck!” she repeated. “How nice of you to come to my
rescue!”
He responded joyfully that to do so was his mission in life,
and asked what form the rescue was to take.
“Oh, almost any—even to sitting on a bench and talking to
me. One sits out a cotillion—why not sit out a train? It isn’t a
bit hotter here than in Mrs. Van Osburgh’s conservatory—and
some of the women are not a bit uglier.” She broke off,
laughing, to explain that she had come up to town from
Tuxedo, on her way to the Gus Trenors’ at Bellomont, and had
missed the three-fifteen train to Rhinebeck. “And there isn’t
another till half-past five.” She consulted the little jewelled
watch among her laces. “Just two hours to wait. And I don’t
know what to do with myself. My maid came up this morning
to do some shopping for me, and was to go on to Bellomont at
one o’clock, and my aunt’s house is closed, and I don’t know a
soul in town.” She glanced plaintively about the station. “It IS
hotter than Mrs. Van Osburgh’s, after all. If you can spare the
time, do take me somewhere for a breath of air.”
He declared himself entirely at her disposal: the adventure
struck him as diverting. As a spectator, he had always enjoyed
Lily Bart; and his course lay so far out of her orbit that it
amused him to be drawn for a moment into the sudden
intimacy which her proposal implied.
“Shall we go over to Sherry’s for a cup of tea?”
She smiled assentingly, and then made a slight grimace.
“So many people come up to town on a Monday—one is
sure to meet a lot of bores. I’m as old as the hills, of course, and
it ought not to make any difference; but if I’M old enough,
you’re not,” she objected gaily. “I’m dying for tea—but isn’t
there a quieter place?”
He answered her smile, which rested on him vividly. Her
discretions interested him almost as much as her imprudences:
he was so sure that both were part of the same carefully-
elaborated plan. In judging Miss Bart, he had always made use
of the “argument from design.”
Selden paused in surprise. In the afternoon rush of the
Grand Central Station his eyes had been refreshed by the sight
of Miss Lily Bart.
It was a Monday in early September, and he was returning
to his work from a hurried dip into the country; but what was
Miss Bart doing in town at that season? Her desultory air
perplexed him. She stood apart from the crowd, letting it drift
by her to the platform or the street, and wearing an air of
irresolution which might, as he surmised, be the mask of a very
definite purpose. It struck him at once that she was waiting for
someone, but he hardly knew why the idea arrested him. There
was nothing new about Lily Bart, yet he could never see her
without a faint movement of interest: it was characteristic of
her that she always roused speculation, that her simplest acts
seemed the result of far-reaching intentions.
An impulse of curiosity made him turn out of his direct line
to the door, and stroll past her. He knew that if she did not wish
to be seen she would contrive to elude him; and it amused him
to think of putting her skill to the test. “Mr. Selden—what good
luck!”
She came forward smiling, eager almost, in her resolve to
intercept him. One or two persons, in brushing past them,
lingered to look; for Miss Bart was a figure to arrest even the
suburban traveller rushing to his last train.
Selden had never seen her more radiant. Her vivid head,
relieved against the dull tints of the crowd, made her more
conspicuous than in a ball-room, and under her dark hat and
veil she regained the girlish smoothness, the purity of tint, that
she was beginning to lose after eleven years of late hours and
indefatigable dancing.
“What luck!” she repeated. “How nice of you to come to my
rescue!”
He responded joyfully that to do so was his mission in life,
and asked what form the rescue was to take.
“Oh, almost any—even to sitting on a bench and talking to
me. One sits out a cotillion—why not sit out a train? It isn’t a
bit hotter here than in Mrs. Van Osburgh’s conservatory—and
some of the women are not a bit uglier.” She broke off,
laughing, to explain that she had come up to town from
Tuxedo, on her way to the Gus Trenors’ at Bellomont, and had
missed the three-fifteen train to Rhinebeck. “And there isn’t
another till half-past five.” She consulted the little jewelled
watch among her laces. “Just two hours to wait. And I don’t
know what to do with myself. My maid came up this morning
to do some shopping for me, and was to go on to Bellomont at
one o’clock, and my aunt’s house is closed, and I don’t know a
soul in town.” She glanced plaintively about the station. “It IS
hotter than Mrs. Van Osburgh’s, after all. If you can spare the
time, do take me somewhere for a breath of air.”
He declared himself entirely at her disposal: the adventure
struck him as diverting. As a spectator, he had always enjoyed
Lily Bart; and his course lay so far out of her orbit that it
amused him to be drawn for a moment into the sudden
intimacy which her proposal implied.
“Shall we go over to Sherry’s for a cup of tea?”
She smiled assentingly, and then made a slight grimace.
“So many people come up to town on a Monday—one is
sure to meet a lot of bores. I’m as old as the hills, of course, and
it ought not to make any difference; but if I’M old enough,
you’re not,” she objected gaily. “I’m dying for tea—but isn’t
there a quieter place?”
He answered her smile, which rested on him vividly. Her
discretions interested him almost as much as her imprudences:
he was so sure that both were part of the same carefully-
elaborated plan. In judging Miss Bart, he had always made use
of the “argument from design.”