In the three stock subjects of the admirable sex--man,
dress, and the ills that flesh is heir to--man readily holds the
ascendancy; and by degrees Moira--discovering that Shirley, having
all the dresses she required (several dozen more, in fact) and being
neither subnormal mentally nor fragile physically, gave the last two
topics scant attention--formed the habit of expatiating at great
length on the latter. Moira described Bryce in minute detail and
related to her eager auditor little unconscious daily acts of
kindness, thoughtfulness, or humour performed by Bryce--his devotion
to his father, his idealistic attitude toward the Cardigan employees,
his ability, his industry, the wonderful care he bestowed upon his
fingernails, his marvellous taste in neckwear, the boyishness of his
lighter and the mannishness of his serious moments. And presently,
little by little, Shirley's resentment against him faded, and in her
heart was born a great wistfulness bred of the hope that some day she
would meet Bryce Cardigan on the street and that he would pause, lift
his hat, smile at her his compelling smile and, forthwith proceed to
bully her into being friendly and forgiving--browbeat her into
admitting her change of heart and glorying in it.
To this remarkable state of mind had Shirley Sumner attained at the
time old John Cardigan, leading his last little trump in a vain hope
that it would enable him to take the odd trick in the huge game he
had played for fifty years, decided to sell his Valley of the Giants.
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