Larry she
accepted with a hazy, preoccupied politeness, eager always to get back
to the more substantial characters of her latest fiction.
Of course Miss Sherwood did not make of Larry a complete confidant.
For all her smiling, easy frankness, he knew that there were many
doors of her being which she never unlocked for him. What he saw was
so interesting that he could not help being interested about the rest.
Of course many details were open to him. She was an excellent
sportswoman; a rare dancer; there were many men interested in her; she
dined out almost every other evening at some social affair blooming
belatedly in May (most of her friends were already settled in their
country homes, and she was still in town only because her place on
Long Island was in disorder due to a two months' delay in the
completion of alterations caused by labor difficulties); she had made
a study of beetles; she had a tiny vivarium in the apartment and here
she would sit studying her pets with an interest and patience not
unlike that of old Fabre upon his stony farm. Also, as Larry learned
from her accounts, there was a day nursery on the East Side whose lack
of a deficit was due to her.
All in all she was a healthy, normal, intelligent, unself-sacrificing
woman who belonged distinctly to her own day; who gave a great deal to
life, and who took a great deal from life.
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