at the prospect of a healthy infusion of much-needed cash and/or donations of family memorabilia.
He had asked that I meet him at his Rittenhouse Square apartment rather than at the Society, and I had been happy to oblige. When I arrived at his building, a doorman held the door for me and a concierge announced my arrival and ushered me to the elevator, which carried me smoothly and soundlessly to the penthouse floor. I was surprised when Mr. Logan answered the door himself, and slightly disappointed that there wasn’t a butler. I’d never met a butler, and I had been kind of looking forward to it.
“Miss Pratt? Please, come in. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. In my younger days I loved to walk about the city, but I’m afraid I find that difficult now.” He stood back to let me into his home.
“Mr. Logan, I’m delighted to be here. I’ve always hoped to have the chance to meet you.” I hoped that he didn’t add the implied follow-up:
so I could ask you for a donation of some kind
. He must hear such requests often.
“I apologize for the oblique approach, but I have a rather unusual request, and I thought you would know best how to address it. May we sit?” He gestured toward the living room.
I was torn between studying my host and admiring the understated elegance of the space, dominated by damask-clad mahogany furniture (could that be real Chippendale?) and imposing oil portraits. Mr. Logan was exactly what I expected of a Main Line blue blood: tall, silver-haired, immaculately tailored in what I had to assume was a bespoke suit, with a monogrammed linen handkerchief discreetly peeping from his pocket. His sober silk tie gleamed dully, as did his slim gold watch and cuff links. Cuff links! How many men wore those anymore, much less at home? I had, of course, reviewed the file we kept on him, as with all our donors, actual and potential, so I knew the basics—his age (eighty-three), his family (widowed; three adult children, two boys and a girl, all scattered), where he lived (the horse country of West Chester, and this coveted address in town), and what charitable institutions he had supported (not us, yet).
He settled himself in a straight-backed wing chair, hitching his crisply pressed trousers, revealing a tasteful minimum of dark sock and polished leather shoe. “Miss Pratt, you must be wondering why I asked you here,” he began.
“I will confess that I am. You haven’t visited the Society, have you?”
“Perhaps on one or two occasions as a guest, but not recently. Others in my family have had a closer relationship.”
I didn’t mention that I knew and could easily list off those near relatives of his who had supported the Society for many years: the Biddles, the Coxes, the Whartons. I nodded, trying to look encouraging. “We’d be happy to welcome you, and I hope you’ll take some time to peruse our collections.”
Mr. Logan appeared to be at a loss for words. I waited patiently until he began, “Miss Pratt, I find myself in a rather awkward position. I trust I may rely on your discretion?”
“Of course.” I would never betray a confidence, either professionally or personally.
He sighed. “Are you acquainted with the history of the Logan family?”
That was familiar ground. “To some extent, yes. Your family—both your father’s
and
your mother’s ancestors—were instrumental in establishing the coal mining industry in the state, weren’t they?”
“Precisely. And they profited handsomely from those endeavors.” Mr. Logan gave a small smile. “Let me come to the point. I have been going through my family papers, which are, I fear, in much disarray.”
I leaned forward. Did he want our help in cataloguing them? How fabulous they might be! I could only hope he was contemplating the gift of the collected family papers, which would document a major segment of Pennsylvania history. What a coup it would be for the Society to acquire such an extraordinary collection.
He had asked that I meet him at his Rittenhouse Square apartment rather than at the Society, and I had been happy to oblige. When I arrived at his building, a doorman held the door for me and a concierge announced my arrival and ushered me to the elevator, which carried me smoothly and soundlessly to the penthouse floor. I was surprised when Mr. Logan answered the door himself, and slightly disappointed that there wasn’t a butler. I’d never met a butler, and I had been kind of looking forward to it.
“Miss Pratt? Please, come in. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. In my younger days I loved to walk about the city, but I’m afraid I find that difficult now.” He stood back to let me into his home.
“Mr. Logan, I’m delighted to be here. I’ve always hoped to have the chance to meet you.” I hoped that he didn’t add the implied follow-up:
so I could ask you for a donation of some kind
. He must hear such requests often.
“I apologize for the oblique approach, but I have a rather unusual request, and I thought you would know best how to address it. May we sit?” He gestured toward the living room.
I was torn between studying my host and admiring the understated elegance of the space, dominated by damask-clad mahogany furniture (could that be real Chippendale?) and imposing oil portraits. Mr. Logan was exactly what I expected of a Main Line blue blood: tall, silver-haired, immaculately tailored in what I had to assume was a bespoke suit, with a monogrammed linen handkerchief discreetly peeping from his pocket. His sober silk tie gleamed dully, as did his slim gold watch and cuff links. Cuff links! How many men wore those anymore, much less at home? I had, of course, reviewed the file we kept on him, as with all our donors, actual and potential, so I knew the basics—his age (eighty-three), his family (widowed; three adult children, two boys and a girl, all scattered), where he lived (the horse country of West Chester, and this coveted address in town), and what charitable institutions he had supported (not us, yet).
He settled himself in a straight-backed wing chair, hitching his crisply pressed trousers, revealing a tasteful minimum of dark sock and polished leather shoe. “Miss Pratt, you must be wondering why I asked you here,” he began.
“I will confess that I am. You haven’t visited the Society, have you?”
“Perhaps on one or two occasions as a guest, but not recently. Others in my family have had a closer relationship.”
I didn’t mention that I knew and could easily list off those near relatives of his who had supported the Society for many years: the Biddles, the Coxes, the Whartons. I nodded, trying to look encouraging. “We’d be happy to welcome you, and I hope you’ll take some time to peruse our collections.”
Mr. Logan appeared to be at a loss for words. I waited patiently until he began, “Miss Pratt, I find myself in a rather awkward position. I trust I may rely on your discretion?”
“Of course.” I would never betray a confidence, either professionally or personally.
He sighed. “Are you acquainted with the history of the Logan family?”
That was familiar ground. “To some extent, yes. Your family—both your father’s
and
your mother’s ancestors—were instrumental in establishing the coal mining industry in the state, weren’t they?”
“Precisely. And they profited handsomely from those endeavors.” Mr. Logan gave a small smile. “Let me come to the point. I have been going through my family papers, which are, I fear, in much disarray.”
I leaned forward. Did he want our help in cataloguing them? How fabulous they might be! I could only hope he was contemplating the gift of the collected family papers, which would document a major segment of Pennsylvania history. What a coup it would be for the Society to acquire such an extraordinary collection.
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