No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. By his side sat a remarkably stout dame, to whom he paid as much attention as it was in his iron nature to pay.
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