Susan Lenox: Her Fall and Rise by David Graham Phillips Page 1 of 1008
Even now I cannot realize that he is dead, and often in the city streets - on Fifth Avenue in particular - I find myself glancing ahead for a glimpse of the tall, boyish, familiar figure - experience once again a flash of the old happy expectancy.
I have lived in many lands, and have known men. I never knew a finer man than Graham Phillips.
His were the clearest, bluest, most honest eyes I ever saw - eyes that scorned untruth - eyes that penetrated all sham.
In repose his handsome features were a trifle stern - and the magic of his smile was the more wonderful - such a sunny, youthful, engaging smile.
His mere presence in a room was exhilarating. It seemed to freshen the very air with a keen sweetness almost pungent.
He was tall, spare, leisurely, iron-strong; yet figure, features and bearing were delightfully boyish.
Men liked him, women liked him when he liked them.
He was the most honest man I ever knew, clean in mind, clean-cut in body, a little over-serious perhaps, except when among intimates; a little prone to hoist the burdens of the world on his young shoulders.
His was a knightly mind; a paladin character. But he could unbend, and the memory of such hours with him - hours that can never be again - hurts more keenly than the memory of calmer and more sober moments.
We agreed in many matters, he and I; in many we differed. To me it was a greater honor to differ in opinion with such a man than to find an entire synod of my own mind.