``If he should touch
me, I'd scream,'' she thought. And then she looked at
Presbury--and around her at the evidences of enormous wealth.
The general--she wondered where he had got that
title--led her mother in to dinner, Presbury gave her
his arm. On the way he found opportunity to mutter:
``Lay it on thick! Flatter the fool. You can't
offend him. Tell him he's divinely handsome--a Louis
Fourteen, a Napoleon. Praise everything--napkins,
tablecloth, dishes, food. Rave over the wine.''
But Mildred could not adopt this obviously excellent
advice. She sat silent and cold, while Presbury and
her mother raved and drew out the general to talk of
himself--the only subject in the whole world that
seemed to him thoroughly worth while. As Mildred
listened and furtively observed, it seemed to her that
this tiny fool, so obviously pleased by these coarse and
insulting flatteries, could not possibly have had the
brains to amass the vast fortune he apparently
possessed. But presently she noted that behind the
personality that was pleased by this gross fawning and
bootlicking there lay--lay in wait and on guard--
another personality, one that despised these guests of
his, estimating them at their true value and using them
contemptuously for the gratification of his coarse
appetites.
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