Lifted Masks

Lifted Masks

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lifted Masks, by Susan Glaspell
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Title: Lifted Masks Stories
Author: Susan Glaspell
Release Date: January, 2005 [EBook #7368] [Yes, we are more than
one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on April 21,
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Edition: 10
Language: English

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MASKS ***

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LIFTED MASKS
STORIES BY
SUSAN GLASPELL
1912

[Dedication] To THE MEMORY OF MY FRIEND JENNIE
PRESTON

CONTENTS
I "ONE OF THOSE IMPOSSIBLE AMERICANS"
II THE PLEA
III FOR LOVE OF THE HILLS
IV FRECKLES M'GRATH
V FROM A TO Z
VI THE MAN OF FLESH AND BLOOD
VII HOW THE PRINCE SAW AMERICA
VIII THE LAST SIXTY MINUTES
IX "OUT THERE"
X THE PREPOSTEROUS MOTIVE
XI HIS AMERICA
XII THE ANARCHIST: HIS DOG
XIII AT TWILIGHT

LIFTED MASKS

I
"ONE OF THOSE IMPOSSIBLE AMERICANS"

"N'avez-vous pas--" she was bravely demanding of the clerk when she
saw that the bulky American who was standing there helplessly
dangling two flaming red silk stockings which a copiously coiffured
young woman assured him were bien chic was edging nearer her. She
was never so conscious of the truly American quality of her French as
when a countryman was at hand. The French themselves had an air of
"How marvellously you speak!" but fellow Americans listened
superciliously in an "I can do better than that myself" manner which
quite untied the Gallic twist in one's tongue. And so, feeling her French
was being compared, not with mere French itself, but with an arrogant
new American brand thereof, she moved a little around the corner of
the counter and began again in lower voice: "_Mais, n'avez_--"
"Say, Young Lady," a voice which adequately represented the figure
broke in, "you, aren't French, are you?"
She looked up with what was designed for a haughty stare. But what is
a haughty stare to do in the face of a broad grin? And because it was
such a long time since a grin like that had been grinned at her it
happened that the stare gave way to a dimple, and the dimple to a
laughing: "Is it so bad as that?"
"Oh, not your French," he assured her. "You talk it just like the rest of
them. In fact, I should say, if anything--a little more so. But do you
know,"--confidentially--"I can just spot an American girl every time!"
"How?" she could not resist asking, and the modest black hose she was
thinking of purchasing dangled against his gorgeous red ones in
friendliest fashion.
"Well, Sir--I don't know. I don't think it can be the clothes,"--judicially
surveying her.
"The clothes," murmured Virginia, "were bought in Paris."
"Well, you've got me. Maybe it's the way you wear 'em. Maybe it's
'cause you look as if you used to play tag with your brother.
Something--anyhow--gives a fellow that 'By jove there's an American
girl!' feeling when he sees you coming round the corner."
"But why--?"
"Lord--don't begin on why. You can say why to anything. Why don't the
French talk English? Why didn't they lay Paris out at right angles? Now
look here, Young Lady, for that matter--why can't you help me buy
some presents for my wife? There'd be nothing wrong about it," he

hastened to assure her, "because my wife's a mighty fine woman."
The very small American looked at the very large one. Now Virginia
was a well brought up young woman. Her conversations with strange
men had been confined to such things as, "Will you please tell me the
nearest way to--?" but preposterously enough--she could not for the life
of her have told why--frowning upon this huge American--fat was the
literal word--who stood there with puckered-up face swinging the
flaming hose would seem in the same shameful class with snubbing the
little boy