The House of Mirth

"Mr. Selden-what good luck!" She came forward smiling, eager almost, in her resolve to intercept him. One or two persons, in brushing past them, lingered to look; for Miss Bart was a figure to arrest even the suburban traveller rushing to his last train. Selden had never seen her more radiant. Her vivid head, relieved against the dull tints of the crowd, made her more conspicuous than in a ball-room, and under her dark hat and veil she regained the girlish smoothness, the purity of tint, that she was beginning to lose after eleven years of late hours and indefatigable dancing. Was it really eleven years, Selden found himself wondering, and had she indeed reached the nine-and-twentieth birthday with which her rivals credited her? "What luck!" she repeated. "How nice of you to come to my rescue!" He responded joyfully that to do so was his mission in life, and asked what form the rescue was to take. "Oh, almost any-even to sitting on a bench and talking to me.