A few days later I was surprised by a call from Dannevig, who seemed
again to be in the full bloom of prosperity. And yet, that
inexpressible flavor of aristocracy, and that absolute fineness of
type which at our first meeting had so fascinated me, had undergone
some subtle change which was almost too fleeting for words to express.
To put it bluntly, he had not borne transplantation well. Like the
finest European grapes, he had thriven in our soil, but turned out a
coarser product than nature intended. He talked with oppressive
brilliancy about everything under the sun, patronized me (as indeed he
had always done), and behaved with a certain effusive amiability, the
impudence of which was simply masterly.
"By the way," he cried, with fine unconcern, "speaking of beer, how is
your friend, Miss Pfeifer? Her old man, I believe, owns a good deal of
stock in this paper, quite a controlling interest, I am told."
"It will not pay to make love to her on that ground, Dannevig," I
answered, gravely, knowing well enough that he had come on a
diplomatic errand. "Mr. Pfeifer is, in the first place, not her
father, and secondly, he has at least a dozen other heirs."
"Make love to Miss Pfeifer!" he exclaimed, with a hearty laugh.
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