Every one then felt that Hugh Barton had said something very, very important.
With equal slow gravity he greeted each one. They were somewhat awed by his lordliness. Luke, however, burst out uncontrollably:
“You’re g-g-getting a fine girl, Mr. B-b-barton.”
Hugh Barton turned on him slowly and fixed him with his keen stare.
“I think so,” he said gravely. His voice was deep, deliberate, with an impressive rasp. He was selling himself.
In an awkward silence he turned, grinning amiably, on Eugene.
“Have a cigar?” he asked, taking three long powerful weeds from his upper vest pocket, and holding them out in his clean twitching fingers.
“Thanks,” said Eugene with a dissipated leer, “I’ll smoke a Camel.”
He took a package of cigarettes from his pocket. Gravely, Hugh Barton held a match for him.
“Why do you wear the big hat?” asked Eugene.
“Psychology,” he said. “It makes’em talk.”
“I tell you what!” said Eliza, beginning to laugh. “That’s pretty smart, isn’t it?”
“Sure!” said Luke. “That’s advertising! It pays to advertise!”
“Yes,” said Mr. Barton slowly, “you’ve got to get the other fellow’s psychology.”
The phrase seemed to describe an action of modified assault and restrained pillage.
They liked him very much. They all went into the house.
Hugh Barton’s mother was in her seventy-fourth year, but she had the strength of a healthy woman of fifty, and the appetite of two of forty. She was a powerful old lady, six feet tall, with the big bones of a man, and a heavy full-jawed face, sensuous and complacent, and excellently equipped with a champing mill of strong yellow horse-teeth. It was cake and pudding to see
