Читать книгу Val Sinestra - Martha Morton - Страница 11

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Every afternoon, Floyd Garrison occupied a deep chair in the window of his club on upper Fifth Avenue—a privilege inherited by the law of precedence, from his father and grandfather. His great-grandfather was one of the founders of the original club-house which was downtown—an old building with raftered ceilings, wooden models of ships, and a portrait of Peter with the game leg.

In time the “youngsters” of 1850 moved uptown, refurnished in plush, and became very exclusive. They kept people out for lack of pedigree, or difference of religious conviction.

A young scion of the new-rich said enviously to Floyd:

“I spend much more on my tailor than you do; you can afford to wear your old clothes.”

Floyd smiled. He took in the young man—a fighting figure, physically strong, eager, on the alert, with gambler’s eyes.

“You’ve never had to sweat blood for money.”

The expression was coarse, but it threw a mental picture.

“No, I’ve never ‘sweated blood’ for a living.”

“I didn’t say a living, I said money. Any idiot can make a living. A man must have money and lots of it to be anybody; it’s a hot game.”

He wiped his forehead.

Floyd wondered if money could buy his armchair in the club-window. He was sure it couldn’t, but he was a gentlemanly young fellow; he wouldn’t hurt the man’s feelings. Destiny had been more than kind to him. He wasn’t grateful; he took life’s favors as a matter of course. In fact, he never gave it any thought. When his father died, sorrow blunted the keen edge of existence; now after a year he was waking up. His heart’s desire was Julie Gonzola. He had no fear; it was the eve of fulfillment.

Sitting there in the club-window, idly watching the traffic, he saw the Gonzola car. Julie was inside with Martin. They stopped at the entrance. Martin sprang out; Floyd waited for him with a pleasant touch of expectancy. Now there would be a long talk about Julie.

He came swinging in, his dark face quivering with excitement. Floyd didn’t take Martin seriously; his unpleasant emotional nature gave his actions a touch of exaggeration, which repelled Floyd, with his calm, undisturbed nature.

“Well, why all this excitement? What’s happened now?”

He spoke laughingly. Martin was always getting into some transient mix-up.

“I may as well tell you, you’ll have to know it. I’ve asked Julie to marry me.”

Floyd was on his feet, hurt, angry; Martin had listened hours to what he called “love ravings” about Julie, knowing he was waiting only for his year of mourning to expire. It was treachery. They faced each other—Martin had an air of triumph, but he turned away from Floyd’s accusing eyes.

“I’ve given her twenty-four hours to prepare her mother.”

“She’ll not consent.”

“Oh, won’t she? I know the way to make her.” Then he walked away.