The End of the Book by Porter Shreve

eccentricity. She was forever complaining about Chicago, calling it “a pestilential bog,” and longing out loud for the better people of Boston and the salt air of Cape Cod. But Tom Willard, upon seeing that the clock read four, double-checked his pocket watch and said, “Has it really been two hours?”
    George leaned over to tell his father that he would explain later, and it was at this point that Lazar appeared at the entryway, arm in arm with his daughter. Margaret wore white, a beautiful silk taffeta and crepe de chine gown. A wreath of orange blossoms crowned her head, and her hair fell in plaits down her back. Two flower girls, grandnieces from New England, scattered rose petals before her, and her father looked after her long train as she made her way down the aisle.
    Standing in the presence of all those people, his odd assortment of groomsmen shifting from foot to foot, Margaret and her bridesmaids shining in their regalia, George found his attention drifting as he repeated his vows. At some point in the service he followed the minister’s eyes to the bank of ballroom windows, where the clouds parted and the sun cast a shimmer over the wet green lawn. The wedding-goers raised a collective Ah . The minister said Now there is a sign , and for a moment laughter filled the room. Soon the music was playing again, and George was walking out of the ballroom, Margaret’s arm entwined with his. People he had never met before shook his hand— Well done , they said. And Aren’t you a lucky one? Then he was in the parlor with his wife, and surrounded by the Lazars, then with his father, flash-lamps aflame in his eyes. You look stunned , Margaret would later say when they went through pictures to choose which ones to hang.
    The newlyweds circulated through the ample rooms, and George caught up briefly with Will Henderson before his former editor wandered off to order another sloe gin fizz. He had an awkward conversation with Margaret’s brother, Charles, a pale and rabbity art dealer who had aggrieved the family by leaving for the East Coast and losing all touch. Charles had come home on this occasion only because he knew Margaret would never forgive him if he missed her wedding. He said as much to George, but when the former reporter asked about life in New York City, he turned chary, then vanished into the crowd, leaving George face to face with the city’s elite. Margaret introduced him to Bertha Palmer, widow of the hotel magnate and grande dame of Chicago society; the great architect Daniel Burnham, who designed the White City at the World’s Fair; and the philanthropist Nettie McCormick, in a similar toque and feathers to the one she’d worn for the portrait now hanging at the Art Institute.
    It was all George could do to pull his father away from Mrs. McCormick. Tom Willard was known for being a talker, and he had the kindly philanthropist boxed into a corner in the drawing room. He must have recognized her name, because by the time George swooped in, his father was crying up the growth potential of Winesburg and its proximity to Cleveland and Lake Erie, and enumerating the many improvements needed at the New Willard House.
    â€œI’m looking for an investor,” he was saying. “A town like ours needs a first-rate hotel, but we’re still getting over the depression of ’93.” He twisted his mustache, which he wore with the ends turned up. “We’re right on the B&O line. We’ve had patrons from Maine to California. Canadians. Europeans. We’re just eight miles to the lake, twenty to Sandusky. You’ll find all the recreation you could imagine right at our doorstep, plus the charm and hospitality of a village. I like to say that people are our top attraction.”
    He leaned back on his heels and smiled at Margaret, who had met him for the first time at dinner the evening before and seemed not to know what to make of him. His Prince