Basil Sequin swept up the broad steps at Thornwood, she
congratulated herself upon a duty about to be accomplished. She had
not foregone a bridge luncheon to make this tiresome trip to the
country for purely altruistic reasons. She had come to prove to
herself, and to her circle, the bond of friendship that existed
between her and her distinguished cousin. Experience had taught her
that an occasional reference to "my favorite cousin, John Jay
Queerington, the author, you know," had its influence. "His is the
only great intellect," she was fond of telling her husband, "to which
I am related either by blood or marriage."
Doctor Queerington's reputation was one of those local assumptions
that might be described as prenatal rather than posthumous. It was
what he was going to be, that made his name an awe-inspiring word in
the community, more than what he was already. It was the conviction of
his friends and colleagues that a tardy world would too late recognize
his genius.
After waiting impatiently for some one to respond to her vigorous use
of the heavy knocker, Mrs. Sequin tucked Fanchonette under her arm and
pushed open the door.
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