Each loaf was shut in a sanitary paper envelope; the popular
superstition, sanitation, had contributed as much as anything to his
marked success. He liked to picture himself as a great force, a granary
on which the city depended for life; it pleased him to think of
thousands of people, men, women and children, waiting for his loaves or
perhaps suffering through the inability to buy them.
August left a direction for a barrel of superlative flower to be sent
to his cottage, and then with a curious feeling of expectancy he
departed. He was unable to grasp the cause of his sudden impatience to
be again at the sea. On the train, in the Pullman smoking compartment,
his coat swinging on a hook beside him, the vague haste centered
surprisingly about the person of Miss Beggs. At first he was annoyed by
the reality and persistence of her image; then he slipped into an
unquestioning consideration of her.
Never had he seen a more healthy being, and that alone, he told
himself, was sufficient to account for his interest. He liked marked
physical well-being; particularly, he added, in women. A sick wife, for
example, was the most futile thing imaginable; a wife should exist for
the comfort and pleasure of her husband. What little Miss Beggs--her
name, he now remembered from the checks made out for her, was Meta
Beggs--had said was as vigorous as herself. He realized that she had a
strong, even rebellious personality. That, in her, however, should not
be encouraged--an engaging submission was the becoming attitude for her
sex.
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