In the South perfumes were distilled for her. There were
whole districts engaged in weaving velvets and silks that she might have
dresses worthy of her loveliness, and men spent their lives toiling in
mines to find jewels for her arms and fingers, or dived under deep waters
to bring up pearls for her pleasure. It was right and just that it should
be so, for there was nothing under heaven fairer than she. And since such
things must always have been part of her life, because she was born for
them and would take them for granted, was it reasonable to hope that she
would waste two thoughts on a man like Nick Hilliard, a fellow reared on
hardships, who had learned to read in night schools, and had considered it
promotion to punch cattle?
All this was as true to-day in Riverside as it had been in New York and
New Orleans. Angela was prettier than ever in the simple dress she wore
for motoring, and the gray silk cap that framed her face, making a halo of
her pale gold hair. Her dainty and expensive clothes were a part of her
individuality, as its petals are of a rose; and she appeared to think of
them no more than a nun thinks of her veil. But Nick felt this morning
that Angela had come down from her shining heights to be human with him.
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