She was young, slender, of medium height, assured, forceful, and magnetic.
Her features were beautiful, and her dress.
“A relative?” he said, smiling and allowing her to enter.
“Yes,” she replied with the utmost calm.
“I am a relative of yours, although you may not believe it right away.
I am the granddaughter of a brother of your father’s.
Only my name is Maris.
My mother’s name was Cowperwood.”
He asked her to be seated and placed himself opposite her.
Her eyes, which were large and round and of a silvery blue, contemplated him unwaveringly.
“What part of the country do you come from?” he inquired.
“Cincinnati,” she returned, “although my mother was born in North Carolina. It was her father who came from Pennsylvania, and not so far from where you were born, Mr. Cowperwood, Doylestown.”
“That’s true,” he said.
“My father did have a brother who once lived in Doylestown.
Besides, I may add, you have the Cowperwood eye.”
“Thanks,” she returned, and continued looking at him as fixedly as he looked at her.
Then she added, unembarrassed by his gaze:
“You may think it strange, my coming here at this hour, but I am stopping at this hotel, too, you see.
I am a dancer, and the company I am with is playing here this week.”
“Is it possible?
We Quakers seem to wander into strange fields!”
“Yes,” she replied, and smiled warmly, a smile reserved and yet rich, suggesting imagination, romance, mental strength, and sensuality.
He felt its force as fully as he observed its character.
“I’ve just come from the theater,” she went on.
“But I’ve been reading about you, and seeing your picture in the papers here, and since I’ve always wanted to know you, I decided I’d better come now.”
“Are you a good dancer?” he inquired.
“I wish you’d come and see and judge for yourself.”
“I was returning to New York in the morning, but if you will have breakfast with me, I think I might stay over.”
“Oh, yes, of course I will,” she said.
“But do you know, I’ve been imagining myself talking to you like this for years.
Once, two years ago, when I was unable to get a job of any kind, I wrote you a letter, but then I tore it up.
You see, we are the poor Cowperwoods.”
“Too bad you didn’t send it,” he commented.
“What was it you wanted to tell me?”
“Oh, how talented I was, and that I was your grand-niece.
And if I were given a chance, how sure I was that I would be a great dancer.
And now I’m glad I didn’t write you, because I’m here with you now and you can see me dance.
By the way,” she went on, still fixing him with her magnetic blue eyes, “our company opens in New York for the summer, and I hope you’ll see me there, too.”
“Well, if you are as lovely a dancer as you are to look at, you should be a sensation.”
“I’ll let you tell me tomorrow night about that.”
She stirred as if to move, but then hesitated.
“What is your first name, did you say?” he finally asked.
“Lorna.”
“Lorna Maris,” he repeated.
“Is that your stage name, too?”
“Yes, I did think once of changing it to Cowperwood, so you might hear of me.
But I decided that name wasn’t as good for a dancer as it was for a financier.”
They continued to gaze at each other.
“How old are you, Lorna?”
“Twenty,” she said simply, “or I will be in November.”