In a luxuriously furnished suite on an upper floor of one of New
York's biggest and most expensive hotels two men sat carelessly
scanning the morning newspapers before a table still covered with
breakfast dishes. It was nearly ten o'clock, long past the hour when
most people begin the day's work, and there was nothing, either in the
men's dress or manner, to suggest that they belonged to the effete and
useless idle class. On the contrary, in appearance they were typical
business men--energy, prosperity, masterfulness, showing in their
every word and gesture, in every line of their clean-cut,
strong-featured faces. On this particular morning they were not
looking their best, and the reason, as well as the explanation of
their late rising might possibly be found in the disorder which a
cursory glance around the room revealed. Dress coats, white ties,
patent leather pumps and other paraphernalia of evening wear were
scattered here and there, just as each article had been thrown down
when they had returned home the night before, while on a side table
were a couple of champagne bottles--empty.
They were both comparatively young men. The elder of the two, a big,
athletic fellow with smooth face and strong jaw, did not appear to be
much over thirty-five. His companion was about the same age. Both had
the _blasé_ air of men who had lived and lived hard. All of
life's fiercer joys they had known to excess, which explained,
perhaps, why they were tired and disillusionized long before they had
attained their prime. With a gesture of disgust, the elder man threw
down his paper, and, snatching up a glass of ice-water, swallowed the
refreshing contents at a gulp.
"It's no use, Fred!" he exclaimed. "I'm no good for that late bumming.
I guess I'm getting old. Those midnight orgies never did agree with
me. Hot birds and cold wine are a barbaric mixture, anyhow. I'm going
to cut it out--do you understand?--cut it out. So don't ask me
again--it's no use. I've got a fearful headache this morning--and I'm
so sleepy that I'd like to go to bed for a week. It's idiotic for a
man to make such an infernal ass of himself. It knocks one out and
renders one unfit for business. How can I go down town and understand
what I'm doing when I've got such a head on as this? There's a
directors' meeting to-day, too--very important. What time was it when
we got home?"
"About three o'clock, I should say," rejoined his _vis-à-vis_
laconically, without looking up from his newspaper.
In the fifteen years that they had been intimate friends Fred Hadley
had grown so accustomed to these periodical outbursts from his old
chum Bob Stafford that he seldom paid the slightest heed to his
protests. Both self-made men, each had started practically in the
gutter and by sheer dint of grit and energy forged his way to the
front, the one as a captain of industry, the other as a promoter in
railroading and finance. Men of exceptional capacity, success had come
easily to them, and with success had come money and power. Hadley was
now vice-president of one of the biggest steel concerns in the
country, and Stafford had been even more successful. Attracted to
railroading he had found employment with a western road, and soon
displayed such a positive genius for organization that he quickly
excited the attention of eastern railroad men. Quick promotion
followed, until, at the end of ten years, he became himself a power in
the railroad world. Shrewd deals in Wall Street had already brought
him wealth, and the age of thirty-eight found him in control of half a
dozen systems, his fortune already estimated at several millions, and
his name in the railroad world one to conjure with, not only in Wall
Street, but from New York to Frisco.
Irritated at his companion's silence, Stafford repeated more loudly:
"Do you hear? I'm going to cut it out!"
At last Hadley, his ire roused, looked up.
"Look here, Bob," he exclaimed impatiently, "you make me tired. You're
a game sport, I don't think. It wasn't Maude's little party that
knocked you out." Pointing significantly to the empty bottles of
champagne on the side tables, he went on: "That's what did you up. Why
did you soak yourself with champagne when you got home? Do you know
you got away with two quarts of the stuff?"
Stafford passed a hand over his burning brow.
"The deuce I did! I don't remember. I must have been drunk when I got
home. I took the 'fizz' to sober up on. Why did you let me?"
"Let you?" echoed Hadley scornfully. "Is there any man alive capable
of keeping you from the bottle when you've got a thirst on?"
"Yes," admitted Stafford contritely, "I recall that I was d--d
thirsty."
"And instead of drinking ice water, you rang for champagne. You're a
nice kind of fellow to moralize--you are!"
Rising from the table, Hadley yawned, stretched himself, and,
sauntering over to a window, stood looking out upon the busy city
below. From that elevation the bird's-eye view was wonderful. The
broad avenues below, teeming with life, the surging, confused mass of
pedestrians and vehicles, the close network of side-streets filled
with busy traffic, the silvery Hudson with sailing vessels and
steamships departing for every port in the world--all this was a scene
of which the eye never tired. The young man gazed at it for a moment,
and then, retracing his steps, threw himself into an arm-chair.
Lighting a cigar, he said:
"These are bully rooms, all right. The view is splendid. But I don't
see why you need to come to a hotel when you have your apartment on
Riverside--and such an apartment!--a veritable palace, filled with
everything one's artistic taste cares for and furnished and decorated
to suit yourself."
"That's just why," answered his companion dryly.
The railroad man had left the breakfast table, and, seated at a desk
on the other side of the room, was busy glancing over a huge batch of
letters which had come with the morning's mail.
"What do you mean by 'that's just why'?" demanded Hadley, puzzled.
Stafford looked up and smiled.
"Why--it's just as you said. My own place is so attractive that I
can't do any work there. The paintings, statuary, bric-à-brac and
what-not, distract my attention too much. If I have an important
letter to draft, I can't think of what I want to say because my eyes
are fascinated by the Peachblow vases on top of the bookcase. You
haven't seen the vases, have you, Fred? They're 'peaches,' all right.
I gave $3,000 for the pair. That's going some for a bit of breakable
bric-à-brac. Come up to dinner some night and see them. I'll tell Oku
you're coming, and he'll get up something good--one of his swell
Japanese dishes."
"Not on your life," interrupted the other with a grimace. "Japs and
Chinks eat all kinds of freak things--nightingale tongues and such
stuff. No--thanks. Your Oku's a decent little sort, as Jap butlers go,
but when it comes to cooking, give me Christian food and a French
_chef_ every time."
Stafford laughed heartily.
"Fred--my boy--you're shockingly provincial and bourgeois. I'm afraid
I'll never make a cosmopolite out of you. Well, as I said, there is
too much art about the place. It seems sacrilege to even think
business there, so when I'm putting through any big deal, I just slip
away and come to this hotel for a few days. At home I'm an art lover,
revelling in the treasures I have succeeded in collecting; here I am a
vulgar business person, occupied in the undignified task of making
money. Only last week, when I was home, I got thinking out a plan one
night in the library for a merger with a road which is cutting pretty
badly into our business. I had thought out a plan, the details were
working out nicely in my mind, when suddenly my gaze fell on the Corot
hung just above my desk. You know the picture. Did you ever see more
exquisite coloring, a more wonderful composition? Is it surprising
that the plan for the merger quite slipped out of my head?"
"Talking of exquisite coloring," interrupted Hadley irrelevantly, "did
you notice how well Maude looked last night? If she's a day, that
woman is forty, yet no one would take her for more than five and
twenty. She's a marvel. No wonder Stanton is crazy about her."
Stafford shrugged his shoulders.
"Cosmetics and a clever hairdresser can work miracles," he said dryly.
"She's a wonder, just the same--especially when you consider the life
she's led. You know her history--a morphine fiend with the face of an
angel. She knocked about for years before Stanton fell into her
clutches. He's dippy about her--pays for that apartment and gives her
a handsome allowance, bought her an automobile, pays her chauffeur,
and all the rest of it. Did you notice that string of pearls she was
wearing? It cost him a cool $10,000 in Paris last summer."
"Why doesn't he marry her, if he's got it as bad as all that?"
Hadley looked at his friend in amazement.
"You're not in earnest, are you?" he demanded. "Marry a woman of that
kind?"
"Why not?" answered Stafford doggedly. "If the man thinks enough of
her to waste so much time and money upon her let him try and reform
her by throwing around her a cloak of respectability. Why is the woman
what she is? Because pleasure-loving blackguards of Stanton's type
have degraded her and made it impossible for her to hold up her head
again among decent people."
Hadley laughed outright.
"Say, old man," he exclaimed, "it's easy to see you are out of sorts
this morning. When did Bob Stafford start in to be a social reformer?
Who ever expected such advice from the man who could always get away
with more booze at a sitting than any man I ever knew, and who has
been the hero of a hundred _affaires de coeur_, not all as
respectable as that of Stanton and Maude?"
The railroad man took it good-naturedly.
"That's all right, Fred--rub it in all you like. It's because I've
been an ass myself that I can see more plainly than any one, perhaps,
what cursed folly it is. We spend our time and substance on some
wretched wanton, who never gives us a thought save how much money she
can squeeze out of us, and what have we in return? Nothing. The years
slip quickly by; we find ourselves getting old, and there's no one
round who really cares a jot whether we live or die--except, possibly
our relatives, who look forward to the latter. Genuine affection is
absolutely foreign to our existence. We have no one to bestow it on;
no one to bestow it on us. To be quite frank, that is another reason
why I don't care to spend too much time in my Riverside home. I feel
lonesome there. The place is quiet; it lacks the life and bustle of a
hotel, and Oku, decent little Jap as he is, hardly makes an ideal
companion--"
Sending a cloud of tobacco smoke up to the ceiling, Hadley gave vent
to a low, expressive whistle.
"So--that's where the land lays, eh? You are lonesome. In other words,
you want a wife to share with you the artistic treasures of your
Riverside home. You are tired of being a bachelor--"
Stafford laughed--a resounding, wholesome laugh, that fairly shook the
room.
"You've guessed it, Fred, you've guessed it. You're a mind-reader. I
confess I'm tired of bumming. You and Stanton and the rest of the boys
are a jolly crowd. You've given me many a good time, but, I tell you,
old man, I'm tired of it all. I want to cut away and settle down. If
the right girl comes along, I'll marry her--"
Hadley was silent for a few moments, and, sitting lazily back in the
comfortable, deep-seated armchair, contented himself with puffing his
cigar vigorously and emitting a prodigious quantity of smoke. Finally
he said:
"All right, Bob--you know best what you want. Try matrimony, if you've
a mind to, but remember this--don't forget I gave you good warning.
Marriage isn't what it's cracked up to be, by a long shot. The girl
you're courting will seem to you a very different person after
marriage. She'll be an old-man-of-the-sea hanging around your neck
whom you can't shake off. Your trouble will only begin when you take
to yourself a wife." Rising and picking up his hat and gloves, he
added: "Now I must be going. I have an appointment at the office at
11:30. What are you going to do? Coming down town with me?"
Stafford pointed to the mass of papers and letters piled up on his
desk. Shaking his head he replied:
"No--I can't go out yet. I must answer all these letters." Helplessly
he added: "I don't know how I'm going to tackle them. I've an awful
headache."
"Why not get a stenographer?"
"A stenographer? That's not a bad idea. Where can I get one?"
"Why, downstairs. There are two attached to the hotel. They attend to
the telephone switchboard and do typewriting as well. One is a girl
with red hair and a squint; the other is dark and rather pretty--"
"Very well," smiled Stafford. "Send me up the pretty one. I couldn't
stand the red-haired girl just now. I've got an important deal on
hand. She might queer my luck. Do that for me, old chap. Tell her as
you go out, and don't forget--the pretty one."
"Right you are!" laughed Hadley. "I'll see you to-night at dinner. Ta
ta!" He was going out when he turned round at the door. "Say--don't
forget your virtuous resolution. Don't make love to the pretty
typewriter."
The door slammed and Stafford was alone.
For some time after his friend disappeared, the railroad man sat idly
turning over the mass of papers accumulating on the desk. There was a
busy day before him--a directors' meeting at 2 o'clock, people to see
at his office. But just now his thoughts were not on his work. He was
cogitating on what he had just admitted to Hadley. Yes, that was it.
The truth was out now. He had never acknowledged it before, even to
himself. He was tired of his bachelor life. He wanted a wife.
What had all his success been to him? An empty kind of satisfaction,
after all. He had made money, more money than he knew what to do with,
but it had not brought him real happiness. How could he be happy, when
there was no one to share his happiness, his success? His parents were
dead; he had no brothers or sisters. He was all alone in the world,
and the older he got the more he was beginning to realize how isolated
his life was. He had hosts of so-called friends--jolly good fellows of
both sexes, who were ready enough to help him spend his money; but
what was such friendship as that worth?
Yet Fred might be right, after all. He had himself known men,
confirmed bachelors like himself, who had got married and regretted it
ever since. Their lives had become a burden to them. They were
outrageously henpecked, made to dance attendance until all hours of
the morning upon silly, bridge-loving wives. True, but they were poor,
weak-minded simpletons, just the kind of men to be dominated, bullied
by a woman. He would like to see the girl who could coerce him into
doing anything he did not wish to do. If he ever married, he would
rule his own household; no woman would venture to dictate to him. He
would insist on his absolute independence, do as he chose, go where he
liked. He would be the master. If the husband had not the right to
command, who had? When a pair of horses was sold, did they not belong
to the purchaser? A wife was, in a sense, a purchase. The average
society girl who gets married nowadays practically sells herself. She
wants a man with money--a man who will give her jewels and clothes and
an establishment that will make every other girl of her acquaintance
green with envy. She gets him--for a consideration. That, no doubt,
was the kind of girl he would one day get. She would offer herself,
and if he liked the look of her he would buy her, and, having bought
her, she would learn soon enough that there was only one master in the
Stafford household. It was not necessary that they love each other.
They would be good friends, chums, and all that, but he would never
let go of the check-rein. Certainly he would always be the master.
He was thus engrossed in his reflections, when there came a gentle rap
at the door. Instantly galvanized into action, he called out in
stentorian tones:
"Come in!"
The door was pushed open, and Virginia Blaine entered, notebook in
hand. Her face was slightly flushed, and she stood hesitatingly on the
threshold, as if fearing to enter. She was attired in deep mourning,
and the simple black dress, relieved only by a little white lace
collar round the neck, enhanced the natural rich coloring of her face.
Starting hastily from his seat, Stafford advanced towards her. Timidly
she said:
"You asked for a stenographer?"
Impressed, as well as surprised by her beauty, at a loss for a moment
what to say, the railroad promoter stammered confusedly:
"No--that is--yes--by all means--won't you sit down?"
She took a seat near the desk, and opening her notebook, got ready to
take dictation. Stafford looked fixedly at her. He remembered now
having seen her at the telephone switchboard downstairs in the hotel
lobby. Smilingly he said:
"What is your name?"
"Miss Blaine," she replied coldly.
"We've met before, haven't we?" he went on.
She colored under his close scrutiny. Why did he stare so? It made her
very uncomfortable. If he did not cease looking at her, she would
close her book and walk out. It was much against her will that she had
come up, alone, to a man's apartment. But she could not afford to lose
an opportunity of earning a little extra money. Answering his
question, she said rather curtly:
"I believe I got a long distance for you the other day. I'm on the
telephone desk, you know. Stenography is only a side issue."
He still gazed at her admiringly, quick to note her well-bred manner,
her quiet aloofness, unusual in girls of her occupation.
"I remember," he nodded. "We had quite some difficulty in getting in
touch with Washington."
"Yes--there was trouble on the wires."
"But we got it at last, didn't we?" he smiled, making an effort to
break the ice and be friendly.
But Virginia intended to stick strictly to business. She must make it
plain that hers was not a social call. Quickly changing the topic, she
asked:
"Is the dictation ready?"
Stafford would have liked to continue the personal conversation. After
all, there was no immediate necessity of getting to work; the
correspondence could wait. But there was an icy haughtiness in the
girl's demeanor that discouraged any further attempt at getting
acquainted. Proceeding therefore to business, he picked up a paper
from the desk and commenced to dictate a letter.