Perhaps, in a perfectly harmless way, allowing it the
inspiration derivable from a well-regulated devotion to herself. A salon
that should be the nucleus of all those forces that influence influences,
over which she would rule with sweet and wise authority. The idea
appealed to her.
Into the picture, slightly to the background, she unconsciously placed
Greyson. His tall, thin figure with its air of distinction seemed to fit
in; Greyson would be very restful. She could see his handsome, ascetic
face flush with pleasure as, after the guests were gone, she would lean
over the back of his chair and caress for a moment his dark, soft hair
tinged here and there with grey. He would always adore her, in that
distant, undemonstrative way of his that would never be tiresome or
exacting. They would have children. But not too many. That would make
the house noisy and distract her from her work. They would be beautiful
and clever; unless all the laws of heredity were to be set aside for her
especial injury. She would train them, shape them to be the heirs of her
labour, bearing her message to the generations that should follow.
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