Mrs. Grossensteck was a
stout, jolly, motherly woman, common, of course,--but, if you can
understand what I mean,--common in a nice way, and honest and
unpretentious and likable. Teresa, whom I had scarcely noticed on
the night of the accident, was a charmingly pretty girl of
eighteen, very chic and gay, with pleasant manners and a
contagious laugh. She had arrived at obviously the turn of the
Grossensteck fortunes, and might, in refinement and everything
else, have belonged to another clay. How often one sees that in
America, the land above others of social contrast, where, in the
same family, there are often three separate degrees of caste.
Well, to get along with my visit. I liked them and they liked me,
and I returned later the same evening to dine and meet papa. I
found him as impassionedly grateful as before, and with a tale
that trespassed even further on the incredible, and after dinner
we all sat around a log fire and talked ourselves into a sort of
intimacy. They were wonderfully good people, and though we hadn't
a word in common, nor an idea, we somehow managed to hit it off,
as one often can with those who are unaffectedly frank and simple.
I had to cry over the death of little Hermann in the steerage
(when they had first come to America twenty years ago), and how
Grossensteck had sneaked gingersnaps from the slop-baskets of the
saloon.
"The little teffil never knew where they come from," said
Grossensteck, "and so what matters it?"
"That's Papa's name in the slums," said Teresa.
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