But----
When he bought a ready-to-wear evening suit, he made more stir
about it than had Susan about her costume--this, when dress to
him was altogether an end in itself and not a shrewd and
useful means. He spent more time in admiring himself in it
before the mirror, and looked at it, and at himself in it,
with far more admiration and no criticism at all. Susan noted
this--and after the manner of women who are wise or
indifferent--or both--she made no comment.
At the studio floor of Brent's house the door of the elevator
was opened for Susan by a small young man with a notably large
head, bald and bulging. His big smooth face had the
expression of extreme amiability that usually goes with
weakness and timidity. "I am Mr. Brent's secretary, Mr.
Garvey," he explained. And Susan--made as accurate as quick
in her judgments of character by the opportunities and the
necessities of her experience--saw that she had before her one
of those nice feeble folk who either get the shelter of some
strong personality as a bird hides from the storm in the thick
branches of a great tree or are tossed and torn and ruined by
life and exist miserably until rescued by death. She knew the
type well; it had been the dominant type in her surroundings
ever since she left Sutherland. Indeed, is it not the
dominant type in the whole ill-equipped, sore-tried human
race? And does it not usually fail of recognition because so
many of us who are in fact weak, look--and feel--strong
because we are sheltered by inherited money or by powerful
friends or relatives or by chance lodgment in a nook unvisited
of the high winds of life in the open? Susan liked Garvey at
once; they exchanged smiles and were friends.
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