She was sufficiently pretty; her hair was in clusters of
curls, like bunches of grapes; her tight bodice seemed to crack with her
vivacity; and from beneath the stiff little plaits of her petticoat a
small fat foot protruded, resting upon a stilted heel. She was
attractive and impertinent, especially the latter. He seemed to think it
was a great pity, what she had told him; but he lost himself in this
consideration, or, at any rate, said nothing for some time, while his
eyes wandered over Mrs. Luna, and he probably wondered what body of
doctrine _she_ represented, little as she might partake of the nature of
her sister. Many things were strange to Basil Ransom; Boston especially
was strewn with surprises, and he was a man who liked to understand.
Mrs. Luna was drawing on her gloves; Ransom had never seen any that were
so long; they reminded him of stockings, and he wondered how she managed
without garters above the elbow. "Well, I suppose I might have known
that," he continued, at last.
"You might have known what?"
"Well, that Miss Chancellor would be all that you say. She was brought
up in the city of reform."
"Oh, it isn't the city; it's just Olive Chancellor. She would reform the
solar system if she could get hold of it.
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