It was an equable and rather amiable Thorpe whom people
encountered after nightfall--a gentleman who looked impressive
enough to have powerful performances believed of him,
yet seemed withal an approachable and easy-going person.
Men who saw him at midnight or later spoke of him to their
womenkind with a certain significant reserve, in which
trained womankind read the suggestion that the "Rubber King"
drank a good deal, and was probably not wholly nice in
his cups.
This, however, could not be said to render him less
interesting in any eyes. There was indeed about it
the implication of a generous nature, or at the least
of a blind side--and it is not unpleasant to discover
these attributes in a new man who has made his half-million,
and has, or may have, countless favours to bestow.
It was as if his tongue instead of his eyes had uttered
the exclamation--"Ah, then she has told you!"--for Miss
Madden took it as having been spoken. "I'm not disposed
to pretend that I'm overjoyed about it, you know,"
she said to him bluntly, as their hands dropped, and they
stood facing each other. "If I said I congratulated you,
it would be only the emptiest form. And I hate empty forms."
"Why should you think that I won't make a good husband?"
Thorpe asked the question with a good-natured if peremptory
frankness which came most readily to him in the presence
of this American lady, herself so outspoken and masterful.
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