FOOTPRINTS

The heavy glass and bronze door revolved, and released from its sections, out of the grizzly November mist and into the rosy and fragrant hotel lobby, malice and envy, joy and enthusiasm, vanity and greed. Fear, masked with dignity, wrapped in sealskin and topped with a charming bright red hat, came quickly and alone.
Two egg-shaped matrons glanced, lengthened and set their glances.
Purple-and-henna breathed, “Beautiful wrap.”
“I’ll tell you about her in a minute.” Brown-and-gold spoke from her throat.
Their gazes followed the sealskin down the long strip of Mosul to the mahogany desk behind which a glossy clerk suddenly discovered reverence and added it to his attitude.
“She’s one of the Quilters,” Brown-and-gold informed. “They are among the best-known families here in Oregon. They have an enormous ranch over east of the mountains in Quilter County; half of that country over there seems to be named for them. They’re millionaires. Ken says everything they touch turns into money.