August Turnbull rose
from his seat in the Pullman smoking compartment and took down the coat
hanging beside him. It was gray flannel; in a waistcoat his shirt
sleeves were a visible heavy mauve silk, and there was a complication
of gold chains about his lower pockets. Above the coat a finely woven
Panama hat with a narrow brim had rested, and with that now on his head
he moved arrogantly toward the door.
He was a large man, past the zenith of life, but still vigorous in
features and action. His face was full, and, wet from the heat, he
mopped it with a heavy linen handkerchief. August Turnbull's gaze was
steady and light blue; his nose was so heavy that it appeared to droop
a little from sheer weight, almost resting on the mustache brushed out
in a horizontal line across prominent lips; while his neck swelled in a
glowing congestion above a wilting collar.
He nodded to several men in the narrow corridor of the car; men like
himself in luxurious summer clothes, but for the most part fatter; then
in the shed, looking about in vain for Bernard, his son-in-law, he
proceeded to the street, where his automobile was waiting. It was a
glittering landaulet, folded back and open. Thrusting a wadded evening
paper into a crevice he sank in an upholstered corner while his
chauffeur skillfully worked out through a small confusion of similar
motor activity. Before him a carved glass vase set in a bracket held
smilax and yellow rosebuds, and he saw on the floor a fallen gold
powder box.
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