Edith Wharton

The House of Mirth Edith Wharton

Selden paused in surprise. In the afternoon rush of the Grand Central Station his eyes hadbeen refreshed by the sight of Miss Lily Bart. It was a Monday in early September, and he was returning to his work from a hurried dipinto the country; but what was Miss Bart doing in town at that season? If she had appeared to becatching a train, he might have inferred that he had come on her in the act of transition betweenone and another of the country-houses which disputed her presence after the close of theNewport season; but her desultory air perplexed him. She stood apart from the crowd, letting itdrift by her to the platform or the street, and wearing an air of irresolution which might, as hesurmised, be the mask of a very definite purpose. It struck him at once that she was waiting forsome one, but he hardly knew why the idea arrested him. There was nothing new about LilyBart, yet he could never see her without a faint movement of interest: it was characteristic of herthat she always roused speculation, that her simplest acts seemed the result of far-reachingintentions.